


Something like you love me

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma decides the best way to get Mary Margaret off her back about Walsh is to say she already has a boyfriend. Except she doesn’t. That’s where Killian comes in. Fake!Engagement fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She opens the door with all the flourish he’s come to expect from Emma in post-stakeout mode, black knit cap still pulled down low over her ears, her black boots discarded in a heap to the left of the door in favor of bright yellow socks. He smiles when he notices they’re the ones he gave her last Christmas – the ones with the little ducklings on them.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Her gaze is focused squarely on the box in his hands, shuffling forward and practically shoving her nose into the bag on top. He pushes her back gently, shutting the door behind him, and heads for the kitchen – a very eager and sleep deprived shadow in his wake.

“As if I would come empty handed.”

He takes the garlic knots out of the top bag and places them to the side, going to the cabinet by her fridge and taking out the plates that have seen better days. When he turns around, she’s already halfway through a slice of chicken pesto pizza, a look of pure rapture etched across her face.

He frowns. “When’s the last time you ate?”

She peeks open one eye before taking another gargantuan bite. “Yesterday. Wait, was yesterday Friday?” He shakes his head. “Okay, then Friday.”

“So two days ago?”

He hands her a plate with an arch of his eyebrow and she grins at him through a mouthful of chicken, grabbing a new slice before heading into the living room.

“I did find those peanut butter protein bars you shoved into my glove compartment, though!” Her voice carries over the muted sound of the television and he shakes his head, making sure to close the pizza box and grab a beer from the fridge before meeting her on the couch. The peanut butter bars are hardly enough sustenance for two days’ time, but at least it’s something. Better than those dreadful bags of Swedish Fish she insists on consuming.

He pauses just before he leaves the kitchen, turning back and grabbing another beer from the fridge, knowing if he doesn’t he will just have to get up in five minutes anyway.

“I fear dipping them in Nutella renders the nutritional benefits useless.”

She rolls her eyes as he falls back on the couch, taking one of the beers perched between his fingers (the one he chose for himself, naturally) and leaning back with him.

“Nutella has plenty of – “ her nose scrunches as she searches for an appropriate word. “ – vitamins. Or something.”

“Vitamins?”

She raises an eyebrow around another mouthful of mozzarella and chicken. “Schmary?”

“Excuse me?”

She swallows, taking a swig from the beer in her hand. “Dairy.”

He chuckles and props his legs up on her coffee table, a horrifically disfigured piece of furniture she “rescued” from the dumpster out back when she was moving in. “Whatever you say, Swan.”

It takes him a minute to notice that the baseball game on the screen – muted calls from the announcers and the gentle rise and fall of the crowd noise turned down low – is not currently being played. He takes a bite of his pizza. “Is this last night’s game?”

Emma is bent over the side of the couch, searching for something, and he keeps his gaze steadfast on the screen instead of the gentle swell of her ass. He is an honorable man, but – she has a lovely ass.

“Yeah, you said you had to work late so I recorded it.” She sits back up, prize in hand, an aged bottle of sriracha that has certainly seen better days. He frowns in disgust but she ignores him, putting a generous portion directly on her dinner. “You’re also taking up way too much space with all your True Detective and I’m not watching that garbage so you better marathon it out or I’ll sacrifice it to the TV gods.”

“So you can fill it with Ice Road Truckers?”

She grins. “Exactly.”

“Speaking of, did you catch your malefactor?”

She arches an eyebrow. “How did Ice Road Truckers make you think of my job?”

“Trucks, cars, your sorry excuse for transportation – “ he gestures between them with his hand and bites his lip against a smile when she rolls her eyes. “ – sleeping in said metal death trap in order to locate your evader of the law. Seamless logic, really.”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” He’s graced with another roll of her eyes, but also the corner of her lips ticks up and he counts it as a success. “The skip has been collected and deposited with Portland’s finest.”

He clinks his bottle against hers. “Another vermin wiped from the streets by your sure and capable hands.”

He doesn’t miss the way her lips tilt up further. “If only the same thing could be said for my mother. She’s –  _Christ_  – “

As if on cue, her phone begins to buzz loudly on the coffee table, lighting up in quick succession as a seemingly endless barrage of text messages hit at once.

“Good lord.” He mutters, watching in abject horror as her phone continues to dance merrily across the tabletop. “Did she discover the crafting catalogue again?”

Emma presses thumb and forefinger against her temples, and he resists the urge to help – the very real itching in his bones to reach forward and tangle his fingers in her hair and brush it behind her shoulder. He’s had a hard time these last couple months (years) deciding what is and what is not appropriate touching when it comes to Emma and the feelings he has long kept buried for her, but pressing his thumb into the dimple just peeking out at him from beneath the hem of her sweater, right at the base of her spine, probably isn’t well within friend territory.

“Worse.” The merry buzzing finally stops and she reaches for her phone, swiping at the screen and frowning at the messages held within. The furrow between her brows increases with every second spent staring at the glowing blue in her hand and he takes another swig of his beer, content to lose himself in the baseball game while she muses over whatever ailment the gentle Mary Margaret is working through. Probably a new pair of curtains for the sun room or maybe there is some sort of dinnerware debacle that is being waged in the northeastern portion of Maine.

“You know how my mom was running for Mayor?”

“Ah, yes. Are the results in?”

“She won and now her and my dad are throwing this celebratory block party thing for the whole town.” Her frown deepens, still scrolling through her phone. He waits for the bad news, for the thing that has her looking like she just swallowed a bottle of rusty nails instead of the craft beer he specifically brought over because it is  _his_  favorite.

(Not because when he brought it over from work two months ago, she had said she liked the new double IPA he had been unsure about, her cheeks pink and her thumb tapping lightly at the label design he had been agonizing over with Will.)

“I fail to see how this is an issue, Swan.”

“Well,” she clicks off her phone after hastily typing away with her thumbs, tossing it on to the table without looking and narrowly missing her discarded plate. “I may have done something terrible.”

“That sounds like quite the tale.” He reaches over her and snags the remote from the armrest, pausing the game and giving her his undivided attention. “Go on.”

She chews thoughtfully on a garlic knot, eyebrows pulled down low. “Did I tell you about Walsh?”

He feels his features darken but does his best to seem nonchalant, ignoring the twisting in his gut that rises every time the folksy furniture owner her mother has been trying to set her up with for  _months_  is mentioned. He doesn’t like the man. He hasn’t met him - but he doesn’t trust people who feel the need to craft armchairs out of discarded crates.

“Your Mum still pushing the subject?”

“Yeah, and, well - “ Her eyes dart to his briefly before carefully considering the label of her beer. “I sort of gave in the last time I was in town during the holidays and it was fine - he was fine - still definitely not interested - but my mom is just - “ She sighs, pushing an agitated hand through her hair, forgetting about the cap still pulled down low and losing a crumb or two in her blonde strands. She tosses the black scrap of knit over her shoulder. “Anyway, I’m going to Storybrooke to help with the block party, and she has been relentless about me and Walsh this, me and Walsh that. Lord knows how he’s been encouraging it on his end.”

He reaches forward and dislodges a particularly stubborn bit of garlic from an errant curl, still very aware that his expression is bordering on thunderous. “I fear I’m still missing the terrible part.”

“I kind of told my mom I have a boyfriend.” she sighs, dropping back against the couch with a groan. “That’s the terrible part. I lied to my mother. I just wanted her to stop talking about Walsh so it just sort of slipped out and now she is freaking out and she wants me to bring him and she has all these questions and I’m caught in a lie and it’s a total fucking mess.” She shakes her head with a snort, lolling her head to the side as she peers at him, blonde hair tangled against the soft blue of her couch. “You don’t have any plans the week of the 9th do you?”

He shrugs and reaches for the remote again, distracting himself with the television instead of the way his heart is suddenly trying to beat it’s way madly out of his chest. He knows she’s joking - knows her well enough to know what that sardonic twist of her lips means - but still. It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had and if it helps her - if it makes things easier with her family, then -

He’d do anything for her.

(Hopefully she doesn’t see the heat climbing his cheeks.)

“No.” He plucks the crust from between her fingers without looking and does his damnedest to seem nonchalant. “I could accompany you. If you wish.”

He says the words slowly and carefully, proud of himself when he doesn’t stutter on the last sentence. He can feel her staring at him and he shoves the crust in his mouth to keep himself from rambling on and filling the empty air between them.  

Later, he will acknowledge this as the precise moment he loses complete control of the situation.

“Seriously?”

“Try not to sound too repulsed, Swan.” He considers going to the kitchen with the excuse of getting another slice of pizza to lick his wounds, maybe walk right out the front door with that bottle of rum she keeps on the bottom rung of her wine rack. “T’was merely a suggestion.”

“I’m not repulsed.” She taps her fingernail against the glass of her bottle. “I’m kind of impressed, actually. It’s not a bad idea.”

Again, the effort not to show emotion almost results in several of his teeth cracked from the strain of his clenched jaw. “Is that so?”

She smiles, a little half-grin that he counts amongst his favorites. “Yeah, you’d make an excellent bondsperson. But are you sure? I mean, you’d lie for me?”

He wants to say he’d do a great deal more than lie, but instead he arches an eyebrow, fixes a smile on his lips and shrugs again. He’ll probably have a bloody crick in his neck after this evening. “Did I or did I not drag your limp and useless body from the bar on Derby Day?”

“That’s different.”

“Semantics, love.”

“It would be great to have you there,” she mutters under her breath, seemingly to herself, and that little part of him that always holds onto hope that she might one day potentially see him as something more stands at attention. She turns sideways on the couch, folding her legs under her. “Are you sure, Killian?”

He throws the rest of the crust in his mouth. He quite literally has nothing to lose.

“Will Henry be there?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent, then I can give him a proper whooping at Call of Duty in person.” Her shoulders fall from their tense position, a smile curling the corners of her lips. “You’ll have to put my Xbox in your bag, though.”

-/-

She falls asleep halfway through the seventh inning, stretched out on the couch with her feet pressed under his thigh and a bowl of popcorn still perched on her chest. He snickers when she tries to roll on her side and only ends up curling her hand further into the buttery, sticky mess - a hapless little sigh whispered under her breath.

“Alright there, Swan.” He taps her ankle lightly, gently extricating her hand from the bowl and placing the heart attack sprinkled with butter and salt on the table. “Off to bed with you.”

He knows not to be offended by the string of muffled curses she garbles in his direction as she heaves herself off the couch. Her socked feet scuffle against the hardwood as he collects their empty beer bottles, her eyelids heavy as she turns and leans on the doorjamb just outside her bedroom.

“Killian?”

He doesn’t want to know how long that container of Milk Duds has been wedged between the cushions of her couch. “Aye?”

“Thank you for the pizza.” He looks up just as she rubs the back of her hand across her eye, another yawn wracking her shoulders. She looks younger like this, more like the girl he met freshman year of university, pale legs swinging back and forth on top of the washing machine in the laundry room. “Make sure you take some for your lunch tomorrow. I saved some of that tomato soup for you as well.”

“I will. Thank you, Swan.” Satisfied by his answer she nods, giving him a half-hearted wave over her shoulder before she disappears into her room. He hears a muffled thud as she collapses into her mound of pillows and blankets and he grins to himself, shutting off the television and the lights in her living room. It’s a miracle she even has aluminum foil is one of the cabinets next to the sink but he counts his blessings, wrapping a couple slices for himself before throwing the box in the fridge. His mouth practically waters at the sight of the tomato soup in a canister set to the side - the only thing she manages to cook proper and one of his personal favorites. She’ll probably ravage the rest of the pizza for breakfast in the morning, but it’s better than the strawberry pop tarts she insists have nutritional benefit.

He gets a text as he pushes out of the stairwell into the lobby of her building, pausing by the mailboxes.

_Emma Swan: Is today Sunday?_

He sighs and walks backwards, elbowing his way back into the stairwell and going one floor down to where the recycling resides. Hers is easy enough to spot. It’s the trashcan overflowing with Cheeze-itz and Totino’s Pizza Rolls boxes.

_Killian Jones: I’ll grab the recycling, but you’re buying me fries Wednesday._

_Emma Swan: Wings, too._

As he totes her recycling behind him (making as much noise as possible outside of her landlord’s door - useless little git) into the bite of the evening air, he debates if this plan to fake a relationship is the dumbest or most brilliant of his life. He has long come to terms with his feelings for her and his wish for something more - content to wait in the wings, so to speak, until she has figured it out for herself. He has no interest in pushing her before she is ready, already well-educated on what happens to those in Emma’s life that prod at her for a decision before she is prepared.

(He thinks of Neal with a flare of irritation - of Walsh and his mason jar votive holders.)

He knows there are feelings on her end, too. He can see it in the way she stares at him sometimes in his kitchen, legs folded beneath her on the bench that overlooks the water, her gaze serious and her mouth curved in a gentle grin. He can see it in the way her eyes sometimes lingers on his lips when she’s had a bit too much to drink, her tongue poking against her bottom lip and driving him absolutely mad with want.

But it’s more than the mutual attraction and the swoop low in his belly when she catches his eye over the bar, her lashes pressed against the apples of her cheeks and her fingertips trailing along her collarbone as he pours out a pint. It’s the way she’s told him every one of her secrets in their years of friendship - her fears of abandonment and the years she spent unwanted and alone in the foster care system. It’s the way she’s told him about finding Henry when he was a small lad - taking him under her wing and the fierce sort of protection she’s always felt for him - the instinct to protect that she’s never understood. It’s the way she’s told him about David and Mary Margaret, her voice thick and eyes glistening with tears as she clung to his hand and told him how she thought no one was ever going to come for her - that she would age out of the system completely alone and have nothing, no one, until - until two people showed up, hardly older than herself, and offered her a home. It’s the way she listens when he shares his secrets, too - his own fear that he’s not quite enough, that he doesn’t have much to give, that working at a brewery and serving half-sloshed college students and tourists is all he will ever be good for. When he talks about his brother and how much he misses him - the only family he ever had torn away from him. It’s the way her hand lingers between his shoulder blades, chin resting lightly against his arm as she molds herself to his side.

But a lifetime of disappointments has left its scar tissue. While she very well might return his feelings, he knows she’d rather stay in the comfortable than explore the unknown. Perhaps with this trip he will be able to show her how it could be if she just - if she just let him love her.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs, pulling his leather tighter as he makes his way down the block to his own apartment. He’s had better ideas in his lifetime, but then again, he’s had worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

She’s glad she doesn't have many friends in Portland, because if she did, she’s sure at least one of them would be attempting to talk her out of this plan.

As it is, Killian is the only person able to talk her out of anything, and he agreed readily enough last night to do this thing. It had been a joke, at first, when she asked him if he had plans. But then he had just quietly said no, picking at imaginary lint on his leg like he always does when he is avoiding or thinking too hard and it’s just - Storybrooke is always tough for her to go back to. It’s not that her parents aren’t great - they are _really_ great - and it’s not that the town isn’t like freakishly perfect with it’s white picket fences and apple orchards, for christ’s sake. It just - it would be good, to have him there.To have someone in Storybrooke that is normal and _not Walsh_ and maybe her mother might actually stop breathing down her neck about _happily ever after_ if Killian is there and holding her hand and fuck, it just -

It seemed like a good plan.

At the time.

Still does.

Sometimes in college when they were out at the bar and a guy got too handsy with her, Killian would slide right into her space and curl his arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple as he glared daggers at whatever frat boy was trying to work his way into her pants. And sometimes, when they went to that old bakery down on the corner or Main, he would curl his fingers through the ends of her hair and tug lightly, telling the old lady at the counter who had it bad for him that it was his girlfriend’s birthday, and couldn’t she _please_ spare a cupcake for the lovely lass on her special day.

It’s the same thing. Same idea, anyway.

She sighs and presses the heel of her hand to her forehead, rolling over in bed and thanking all that is holy that she decided to invest in the thick, light blocking curtains that hang heavy over her windows. It’s well into the afternoon and it still looks like a bat cave in her bedroom, the remnants of sleep still tugging at her. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore the pull in her gut that woke her from sleep. In her dream she had been on Killian’s boat down in the river, wearing the same worn sweatshirt she always does when she manages to convince him to take her out. She can still see it when she closes her eyes - the easy ebb and flow of the water, the tattered sail with patchwork bits folded and pieced together - the same damn thing he had worked on for close to a month in her apartment, bent in concentration over the weathered fabric.

In her dream, she had been waiting for him, hugging her knees close to her chest, but he hadn’t shown.The sun had just started to set over the inlet when she woke up with a start, fingers twisted in the down of her comforter and her stomach rolling in anxiety.

She sighs and presses herself deeper into the blankets.

It’s a good thing she doesn't have friends. They’d probably talk her out of this.

-/-

(But she doesn't want to be talked out of this. Killian is the first person in her life who hasn’t ran from her - who hasn’t disappointed her and left her grasping for even a thread of normalcy by turning his back and walking away. She used to think - back when they were young and stupid and spending their nights drinking far too much and spinning together on crowded dance floors - she used to think that they could be something. She saw the way he looked at her, the way his gaze always seemed to linger a bit long. But then he found Milah and he was so in love and he was happy and she just sort of - she gave it up. Stopped thinking about that maybe. Told herself that it was better this way. Friendship was better.

Friendship means she gets to keep him.)

-/-

Henry calls her Tuesday morning, after she’s managed to sleep away the rest of Monday in a dead-to-the-world coma with only a brief brush with consciousness for cold pizza from the fridge. She’s just collecting her recycling container - a post-it on the top from her overbearing landlord reminding her that recycling tub collection is required _day of, dearie_ \- when her phone buzzes in her back pocket, the lid tumbling to the pavement as she attempts to answer and drag her container at the same time.

She curses into the phone. Henry laughs.

“Good to hear from you, too.”

“Sorry, kid. Hold on a second.” She slams the lid down on the bin, giving it a kick for good measure. She presses the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Long time, no talk.”

She can practically hear his eye roll. “I called you a week ago and we talked for like four hours.”

“Forty-five minutes, but good try.” She shoves her bin in the cubby marked with a little doodle of a swan Killian drew on a piece of masking tape. “It’s unlike you to call me, should I be worried?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” There’s a pointed silence at that and Emma stares blankly at the wall, trying to come up with a reason why her foster brother sounds like a smug little shit on the other end of the phone. She opens her mouth to ask him what the hell he is alluding to when his irritated sigh cuts her off. “Apparently you have a boyfriend?”

“Oh.” She supposes this is the moment of truth. “Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

He sighs again and she bites her lip against a grin. Sometimes it’s hard for her to remember they don’t actually share a bloodline, especially when his short-fuse is remarkably similar to her own.

“Who is it?”

“Oh.” She blinks rapidly. She should have thought this through more. Henry knows Killian. Her parents know Killian. Nothing more than general meetings here and there at college graduation and apartment moving and mentions of his name over the phone - and Call of Duty, apparently - but still, she definitely didn’t mention to her mom that her new mysterious boyfriend is Killian. “Well, uh - “

“You’re being weird. Why are you being weird?”

She resists the urge to slam her head into the wall as she trudges up the stairwell. She wishes Killian were with her so he could tell her what to say. He’s always good at this shit - the thinking on his feet thing.

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are. It’s like the time you got super stoned and tried to hide it from me.”

“What?”

“I was seven. Not stupid.” She remembers being seventeen and sitting out on the roof, Henry’s little head popping out from his room. She also remembers hastily shoving half a bag of doritos in her mouth to keep her from saying something stupid. “Now tell me who you’re dating before I go into full freak out mode.”

“Wha - Why would you go into freak out mode?”

She hears his grunt of exasperation through the phone. “Because you are being weird about this! I should have just called Killian.”

“Killian’s working.” She mutters, and this time she does let her forehead rest against the cold metal of her door. She sighs, ignoring the guilt that comes with lying to Henry, and bites the bullet. “And that’s him, by the way.” She gestures with her hand even though he can’t see it. “The, uh - the boyfriend.”

The word feels foreign on her tongue. She’s never used it before. One night stands and awkward dates your mother sets you up on do not a boyfriend make. And Neal - well, Neal hadn’t been too fond of _labels_.

“What’s him?”

“Killian.”

“Killian knows him?”

“No, Henry, christ.” She pushes her key into the lock and wonders if she still has that rum from Christmas. She could use it right about now. “Killian is him. Killian is my boyfriend.”

She wonders if she should feel something with that - a swoop in her stomach, or maybe general unease with the simple way the words tripped off her tongue. But instead she feels - nothing. Calm, sort of. Oddly enough.

“You’re dating Killian?”

“Yup.”

“Hm.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means interesting, is what it means. It means,” she can hear him gearing up for a tirade, his voice climbing in both speed and volume. “You haven’t called anyone your boyfriend since you freaking found me in that group home, is what it means. It means, why wouldn’t you or Killian tell me about this?! That is what it means!”

“Henry, listen - “

“Don’t ‘Linda, Honey’ me.” He snaps, and she can just imagine him in his cramped dorm, arms crossed over his chest, petulant glare out the window.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, but it’s a recent thing. We’re just - “ she rubs her fingers into her forehead. “ - trying to figure it out.”

There. Not a lie.

“Yeah, no shit.” He grumbles into the phone. “You know I played xbox with him for like three hours last night and he didn’t say a word.”

She flips open her laptop and falls onto the couch. “What do you even talk about when you’re playing xbox?”

She hears a shuffling on his end, a slam of the door and some muffled talking. “Ammo, mostly. What sort of gun to use. How terrible he is at maintaining cover.” There’s some more muffled talking and then a heavy sigh. “Hey, I have to go. But we’re not done talking about this, okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “Alright. Go be a wild college kid.”

He chuckles. “The buffet in the student cafeteria won’t know what hit ‘em.”

She grins, remembering all those nights in the group home when she would give up her food just to make sure he had enough, wrapping it up in napkins and sneaking it to him when all the other kids were asleep. His appetite hasn’t diminished. “Love you, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you, too.”

-/-

_Killian Jones: Why is it that your brother texted me just one word?_

_Emma Swan: What was the word?_

_Killian Jones: Treachery._

She sighs and drops her head to the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling.

_Emma Swan: That doesn't sound like an emergency. I gave him your number for emergencies._

_Killian Jones: We have been known to converse from time to time. Should I be concerned?_

She taps her thumb against the glass of her phone. She knows Henry has to be somewhat pleased about this development. Or rather, fake development. It’s no secret he adores Killian, despite the limited time they have actually spent in one another’s physical presence. She’s sure Henry is just doing all of this for show - more disappointed with her for not telling him right away.

_Emma Swan: He called earlier. The cat is out of the bag._

_Killian Jones: Ah. So we are official then?_

_Killian Jones: Shall we be Facebook official?_

_Killian Jones: Isn’t that what all the kids are doing these days?_

_Killian Jones: Are you now my bae?_

She chuckles, not even wanting to know where he got that from. Probably from one of the bar patrons - most likely one of the college girls with their low cut tanktops and pretzel necklaces he insisted they start selling at the bar, wide eyes and bitten lips, high pitched giggles every time Killian shoots a wink their way.

She makes a face.

_Emma Swan: Cool it, Romeo. We can game plan tomorrow?_

_Killian Jones: Aye. You promised me fries._

-/-

The bar is already crowded when she pushes her way through the heavy double doors, a din of chatter hitting her as she stomps her boots on the well worn rug in the front entry way, trying to shake off the chill from outside. It’s oddly cold for this early in November, and she fears she will be spending another winter navigating the icy streets in her bug. Killian has been on her for years to get chains for her tires, but she adamantly refuses. People who puts chains on their tires look like tools. Plus, she’s not sure the bug can manage any additions at this point in it’s long, long life.

“Fancy meeting you here, Swan.” He says it every week, stupid grin pulling the corners of his lips up as he pops out of seemingly nowhere - red flannel rolled to his elbows, his Red’s Brewery shirt barely visible from underneath. She rolls her eyes, pulls off her beanie and runs a hand through her hair. He’s already holding a flight of beer in his hand, practically bouncing on his toes.

She raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t know this was a working happy hour.”

He quirks one of his own, free hand falling to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowd to their usual spot - two faded leather chairs on either side of a barrell rescued as a table, tucked away in a corner away from the noise of the rowdy partitioners. The string lights are a particular favorite of hers, making her feel like she’s beneath a Christmas tree. “I believe it’s a working respite for the both of us, love.” He sets the beers down and gestures to her chair. “Hold on a tick and I’ll put in the order for fries with Will.”

She grabs his arm before he can get too far. “Wings, too. Put it on my tab.”

“I believe your tab is quickly surpassing your college education sum, darling.”

“My best friend works at a brewery,” she collapses into the chair, careful to keep her knees from knocking against the table and spilling the drinks. It’s happened before - once or twice. “What do you expect?”

He grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like spoiled rotten but she ignores it, watching the back of his head disappear in the crowd back to the bar. She picks up a glass in his absence, clinking her fingernail against it and watching the bubbles dislodge and float to the top. It’s cold against her fingertips. He must have just poured it before she came through the door. He always was scary accurate at predicting her arrival time - most times better than she even knows herself.

“That one doesn’t go first, put it back.”

She sets the small glass carefully back into its designated slot. She’s long since abandoned trying to argue with him regarding his taste testing rituals.

“Are you going to spout some preferred taste mumbo jumbo at me?”

He frowns, tossing a stack of napkins onto the table and wrapping his fingers around his own pint. “It’s not mumbo jumbo. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, Swan - there is an art to beer tasting. It’s not just - “

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves her hand, anxious to head off this conversation before it gets to the intricacies of dry hopping and she snorts into her beer and he’s disappointed by her _lack of maturity, honestly Swan_. “Got it. Where would you like me to start?”

He had initially gone to college seeking a degree in engineering, hoping to pursue a position in the Navy - back at home in England or perhaps in the United States, if he was granted citizenship at the conclusion of his student Visa. She had met him freshman year in one of their mutual elective classes - some bullshit about Self Defense in a Modern World. She remembers signing up for it as an easy gym credit, not expecting to have to actually physically defend herself on the first day. Killian had been hesitant as he fidgeted in front of her on the mat, the two of them singled out by the douchelord professor to act out a scenario. Eventually he had half-assed came at her, and she had full-assed slammed him to the mat.

And broke two of his ribs.

They had been fast friends. Sort of.

But his degree took a sharp left his third year when his brother - when Liam - was killed in action. Some sort of mission gone wrong or a freakish accident on his ship, Killian never did talk much about it. She remembers the vacant look in his eyes, the way he wouldn’t come out of his room for days at a time - not eating, not sleeping, not even really living. She remembers the day he finally broke, his hand crushed tight around her own and his forehead pressed to her side as his shoulders heaved next to her. He went to London after that, and while most of his professors were understanding, his grades tumbled. He graduated on time, but his GPA was atrocious.

The only place he could find a job post-graduation was the dive bar they always hung out at and soon enough he started tinkering with the brewing equipment long since abandoned in the back. It wasn’t exactly the same as engineering mechanics - but engineering beer did have it’s perks. Same principle, he always said. And when she got a shadowing gig at a bail bonds organization in Portland, it was the perfect place for him to follow. _I’d follow you to the end of the Earth_ he had grinned at her and she rolled her eyes but - It was nice to have a friend. For once.

He presses his pinky against the glass at the top, shaking her from her reverie. “Start here, if you would. Make your way down.”

She picks up the glass and holds it just below her lips, staring at him and the stupid way he’s leering at her, the comment clearly on the tip of his tongue. He stills when she arches her eyebrow in warning, a heavy sigh slumping his shoulders. “Full rundown after each?”

He grins, leaning back in his chair and crossing his ankle over the knee in exaggerated calm, both eyebrows rising high on his forehead. “You know the drill, darling.”

She takes a careful sip, the smooth golden ale tipping down her throat. It’s light and crisp, ice cold where her fingers wrap around the glass. She can taste the barest trace of sticky sweetness, and she takes a bigger gulp. His smile widens until two twin dimples flash at her.

“I take it that one’s a winner?”

She nods, draining the glass, swiping her thumb along her bottom lip. “S’good.” She places it back in it’s rightful spot, knowing how freakish he gets about his god damned tasting glasses and their proper wooden slots. “Is it honey?”

“Aye,” his eyes sparkle, a pleased blush climbing his cheeks. “Ah, with a touch of cinnamon as well. Thought you’d like it.”

“Well, you thought right.” She picks up the second one, a touch darker. “Do you want to talk out our dating timeline, or do you want to wait until the market research is over?”

“I can multi-task, darling.” The statement is accompanied with a single jumping eyebrow and she only rolls her eyes slightly, proud of her restraint while sipping at her glass. She winces when the flavor hits her tongue.

“Christ, is that pomegranate?” She spits it as delicately as she can back into the glass. He shrugs and she takes it as affirmation. “What made you think pomegranate was a good idea? I want the honey stuff back. Give me the honey stuff back.”

“No, try the next one.” She gives him a wary look, hesitantly picking up the third glass in the row. “Easy, Swan. I won’t poison you.”

“Have you forgotten about your first foray into IPAs already?”

“Well,” he scratches behind his ear. “We both got sick from that, so I’d say we can call it a draw. Now,” he claps his hands together and leans his elbows on his knees. “What is it that we need to decide on?”

“How did we meet?” She sips carefully at the next glass, relieved when she isn’t smacked upside the tastebuds with some tart monstrosity. She sips again, rolling the liquid around in her mouth.

“In college. Your parents already know this.”

“Okay, then how did we start dating?” She finishes the beer in her hand and considers for a moment, tilting her head to the side and watching the way he fidgets back and forth in his chair. “This is good, but a little bitter.”

“Aye? Perhaps a bit too much with the hops.”

She hums and one of the waitresses chooses that moment to bring their food over, plopping it unceremoniously on the table between them. Killian is still staring at the tips of his worn chucks so he doesn't notice when the girl lingers, fidgeting with the end of her apron. Emma rolls her eyes. It would be annoying if she wasn’t so used to it.

She reaches forward and grabs a fry, throwing it at Killian’s head. It seems to break both of their spells - the waitress turning on her heel as soon as Killian looks up.

“Focus. How did we start dating?”

He picks the fry up out of his lap and pops it in his mouth, confiscating both the fry basket and the wing basket and placing them out of reach. When she frowns he gestures back to the two remaining glasses. “You have work yet to do, Swan. I don’t want - “

“ - compromised taste testing, yadda yadda, I know. Now - ” She gestures between them and he huffs a laugh, a soft smile of amusement curling his lips as he considers her. She knows that face. It’s his thinking face.

“Perhaps,” he pops another fry into his mouth, and when he speaks it’s slightly garbled from bits of potato sprinkled with garlic. “Perhaps we just say things progressed naturally and I finally gathered my courage and asked you out.” He averts his eyes to the edge of the tabletop and she’s too distracted by the burst of spiced orange on her tongue to notice the way his eyes keep darting between her and his glass. “No need for all cloak and dagger, Swan,” he continues. “ I fear I’m rather dreadful at remembering minute details.” He continues with a sigh, and a roll of his wrist. “But if you wish some harrowing story of how I saved you from a rumbling trashcan coming at you in the middle of the street while your boot was stuck in a storm drain - by all means.”

“That sounds familiar.” He’s studying the paper that lines the inside of the basket like it’s life’s greatest mystery instead of looking at her and she feels the pang again - a ghost pain of that anxiety from her dream. And it’s not all that orange he decided to (over) infuse the beer with. The last thing she wants is to force him into anything. “Killian, listen, if you don’t want to do this, then - “

His head snaps up. “What makes you think I don’t want to do this?”

She shrugs, finishing the spiced orange and moving on to the last glass. “The way you’re trying to set fire to our appetizers with your brain, for one.”

“Apologies, love.” He offers her the basket of fries when she finally finishes her last beer, humming lightly in approval. It’s another honey based concoction, and she wonders just how many variations he’s got stocked up. A smile quirks his lips. “I got lost in my mind for a moment. Listen, I - “ His thumb taps at the top of her hand, and she meets his steady gaze. “I don’t intend to let you down.”

She hesitates for a moment, flipping her hand under the gentle press of his fingertips until their thumbs rest together neatly. She taps his thumb back, the way they used to do when they were drunk at the bar and too uncoordinated to make pinky promises, and blows out a breath through her nose.

“I know.”

-/-

His half hour break turns into a two hour inquiry into the merits of orange versus lemon in beer where the tips of his ears turn red in his huffy frustration (lemon is _wrong_ , if he wanted lemon he’d make a bloody shandy) and she doesn't even notice that most of the crowd has dissipated until Granny throws a wet rag at Killian’s face.

“I don’t think I pay you to eat my food and drink my beer.”

Killian grins, standing and tugging the rag neatly through his belt loop. “No, I believe you pay me for my - what is it that you said - pretty face and annoyingly good beer suggestions.”

Granny grunts and gestures behind the bar with her head. “Don’t get cocky, Jones. Back behind the bar. You know what happens when you leave Will alone for too long.”

Killian frowns, already heading towards the bar, craning his neck and trying to find his counterpart behind the taps. Will’s habit of experimenting with both the brewing equipment and ingredients when Killian is otherwise occupied is well documented. “Aye, we end up with questionable beer brewed with chocolate cookies.”

“Hey, I liked that beer.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her over his shoulder. “And you’re the only one who drank it. Meet you at Ruby’s after?”  

She nods her ascent as Granny flicks at her ear, reaching forward and collecting the empty baskets. Her tendency to mother over everyone with stern obedience earned her the nickname, something the bar patrons started calling her years and years ago. It kind of stuck. And then stuck to the diner her granddaughter Ruby opened up down the street.  “You didn’t pay for that - “ she shakes the fry basket in front of her face. “ - either.”

She manages to sneak the last fry away, squirreling it away in her mouth. “It’s on my tab.”

-/-

Somewhere into her fourth hot chocolate, she begins to wonder just how much of her soul she owes the Lucas family. It’s not that she doesn’t _pay_ , it’s just that -

“Seriously, Emma.” Ruby snatches the mug out of her hands with the same ferocity demonstrated by her grandmother earlier. “Your tab is insane. You’re drinking me out of cocoa powder.”

She shifts down in her seat, adjusting her laptop so that it covers (most of) Ruby’s disapproving glare. “Did you, Granny, and Killian have a discussion or something? Because I swear I’ve already heard this once today.”

Ruby leans down until she’s eye level, one perfectly manicured hand snapping her computer closed. “Well maybe if you hear it enough, you’ll actually listen.”

“Highly unlikely.” Killian falls into the empty booth across from her, eyelids heavy and hair mussed. He looks like he just went to hell and back - or manned the helm of last call at the bar. He reaches for the hand still plastered against Emma’s laptop with his usual theatrical flare, shaking Ruby’s arm up and down lightly until her bracelets dance together. “Dear, sweet, lovely Ruby - could I please have one of your finest cheeseburgers?”

Ruby rolls her eyes, but doesn't move to yank her hand away, her lips turning up just the slightest bit at the edges. She always did have a soft spot for Killian. “Emma already ordered you one.”

“Ah, but did she remember no pickles and - “

“ - hot sauce? Yeah, I did. You weirdo.”

“Some just like it hot, Swan.” He reaches across the table for her mug, the arch of his eyebrow half-hearted at best. “It doesn't make anyone less of a person to enjoy hot sauce on their burgers.”

She allows him three careful sips of her hot chocolate before she takes it back, pressing her palms to the warm mug. He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and she knows what’s coming.

“Ruby, have you tried adding more - “

She holds up her hand. “Just because you are next in line to inherit the brew pub, does not mean you have free reign to criticize what I serve here.”

Killian sputters, twin spots of pink high on his cheeks. “I’m not - “

“You are. Everyone knows it. Granny loves you.” She snaps her fingers in front of him before spinning on her heel in dismissal, heading back to the kitchens where something is clearly on fire. But she doesn’t hurry her steps - just keeps the same measured, easy pace as she shouts out to Victor to _turn on the god damned blower, for fuck’s sake_.

Emma sips at her drink again, watching him from over her mug. “She’s right, you know. Granny is totally going to give you the bar.”

Killian scratches at the back of his head until she fears he’s going to break skin, shoulders rising in a half defensive, half confused gesture. “I don’t know where either of you are getting that information, but - “

“Granny. Granny is where we are getting that information.”

“ - the old broad has no plans to retire any time soon, so I fear glorified bartender is what I shall remain for the imminent future.”

She frowns. “You’re much more than a glorified bartender.”

His eyebrows shoot up the way they do whenever she gives him even a semblance of a compliment, chin ducking down to his chest. She almost feels bad for the comment teasing it’s way out on the tip of her tongue, but then again -

“You can also wield a Swiffer like no one’s business - hey!”

He doesn't hesitate to stick his fingers in the whipped cream sitting pretty on top of her cocoa, absolute shit-eating grin plastered on his face. This time when he raises an eyebrow, it’s far from half-hearted and she fights the blush she can feel rising in her face when he pops his fingers in his mouth.

“Delicious.” He says, and it sounds like something else instead. Something indecent and dark, a bit of whipped cream clinging to the corner of his lip.

“I hope you’re happy. My hot chocolate is now ruined.”

He curls his hand around the mug, pulling it over to his side of the table. “Pity, that.”

Ruby sticks her head out from the kitchens, long brown hair pulled up in a messy bun, a bit of soot smeared on her cheek.

“What does my cocoa need?”

Killian grins in triumph.

-/-

“You know, Swan,” It’s hard to read his face in the dim streetlights, but the set of his shoulders is tight and his hands are balled into fists in his pockets. He’s been quiet since they left the diner and started their way towards their apartments, and she’d been content to leave him with his thoughts in an attempt to untangle her own. “One would assume with pretending to be a couple, we’ll have to put on a proper show.”

It isn’t like him to be so hesitant. It _is_ like him to deflect with flowery words and elaborate vocabulary though,  so she steps up on the little stoop that marks her apartment building, turning so she can meet his shifting gaze in the light of the moon.

“What exactly do you mean?”

He huffs out a frustrated breath through his nose, and she imagines his hands are clenching and unclenching in his pockets. “I mean it might be awfully suspicious if we were a couple that did not kiss, darling.”

She freezes.

“Oh.”

His lips settle into a thin line. “Yes. _Oh_.”

She hadn’t thought about that.

Well, she’s thought about that. Once. Or twice. During the _before_ when she thought they could be a thing and she didn’t resign herself to _just this_ because _this_ is good and safe and -

She needs him. She needs him around. She needs him to bring her chicken pesto pizza after extra long shifts and stuff her glove box with peanut butter protein bars because otherwise she won’t have anything to eat. She needs him to remember to get extra gauze and band-aids and put them under her kitchen sink for when she comes home with scraped knees and bruised elbows. She needs his teasing smile and shining eyes. She needs his soft words in her ear and his chest solid against her cheek. She needs Goonies and popcorn with extra butter when she’s feeling sad, his fingers scratching against her scalp and brushing away her tears.

It’s not worth losing that. For more.

(Because she _would_ lose that. They would have more for maybe a month or two and then he would get bored or she would fuck it up like she always does and she would have nothing. _Nothing_.)

“Well,” She can’t help but feel like a preteen here, awkward and unsure. The barest hint of a smile quirks at his mouth and it settles her. She tugs on the lapels of his coat. “I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

He leans closer, nose practically bumping against her own. Her breath hitches in her chest because she can smell the chocolate on his breath ( _her_ chocolate) and he wouldn’t. Not here. Not like this.

“Are you sure - “ His gaze lingers heavy on her lips and she can feel the shift in the air when his tongue pokes at his bottom lip. She thought it was some sort of romance novel bullshit - the ones that she reads on extra long watch shifts in the car - but she can actually feel the way his body presses closer to hers. “ - that you don’t want to practice?”

He waggles his eyebrows and it breaks the moment, the hands on his jacket fisting and pushing him away. He laughs as he stumbles backwards, and she tells herself the goosebumps on her arms are from the cold settling over the city.

“You’re an idiot.” She says.

His grin widens until the dimples flash in his cheeks. “Aye. That I am.” He dips his head in a stupid mock bow that has her chuckling under her breath as she keys open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Swan.”

She’s still smiling when she kicks open her apartment door.

(It’s a good thing she doesn’t have friends.)

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

He had been kidding about practice.

Well, he had started out kidding about practice, but then he leaned closer to her just under the little orange light outside her apartment building and her eyes dropped to his lips and her fingers curled around his elbow and suddenly – he wasn't kidding about practice.

He wanted to kiss her.

He  _wants_  to kiss her.

He thought about kissing her once – back when they were in college and he had just returned from summer vacation with Liam. A summer spent out on the little vessel they rescued from an old junk shop and pieced back together bit by bit over the years until it was finally seaworthy. A summer spent thinking only of her – of the way she smiled when she was desperately trying not to, how her hair stuck to her cheek when she fell asleep in the library. Liam had teased him mercilessly about his inability to just buck up and -  _tell her, bloody hell, if I have to hear one more thing about her hair or her eyes or the way she bloody drinks her cocoa, I'll heave myself over the railing._

He had returned to school with sun burn on his ears and the ground painfully steady beneath his feet and found her down in the laundry rooms, her heels bouncing against the machine beneath her, glasses slipping down her nose as she looked through the course catalogue. He had wanted to kiss her, taste that peach lip gloss she always wore, feel her knees pressing in on his sides.

He thought about kissing her until a guy with shaggy hair and questionable plaid appeared at her side, his palm gliding over her bare knee.

He thought about kissing her that night at the bar, when her arms were wrapped around his neck and her breath was sweet against his lips – eyes hazy and unfocused but her smile wide - telling him how much she missed him while he was away - all about her summer and her new boyfriend Neal.

He thought about kissing her in the rain, her books clutched tight to her chest and his laugh loud as she glared at him from under her hood, hair stuck in wet clumps against her cheeks.

He thought about kissing her in the sunlight, her shorts impossibly short, skin pale from the long winter months and her hair in a braid, hitting him in the chest every time she turned her head. He thought about kissing her on graduation day, when her cap was crooked and her eyes were shining and she had his flask of rum hidden under her robe. He thought about kissing her when they moved to Portland, her hand soft in his, her thumb rubbing back and forth over his in a brief squeeze as they drove over the bridge and into a new adventure.

He's thought about kissing her a million times in a million different ways – the little alcove directly to the right of her door with her thick socks on her feet and a coffee in her hand a particular favorite rumination of his – but he hasn't. Because he is a patient man, and he can wait for this.

He thinks about kissing her now – with her closet exploded around her and her suitcase open on her bed, a bag of cheetos in his lap that she keeps trying to surreptitiously steal every five minutes.

"You know we don't leave for a week, yes?" He shifts in the armchair and dangles the bag over the side, out of her reach as she practically climbs in his lap to grab for it. "You don't need to pack right now."

"I know, but," Her knee hits him in the thigh and he winces, dropping the back and scattering cheese puffs across the hardwood. She ducks down and scoops them up, grin triumphant, and he wants to kiss her. "You know how terrible I am with packing. If I don't do it now, I won't do it, and I'll end up stealing your sweaters all week."

He rubs at his thigh. "Wouldn't be the first time." He grumbles, thinking of all the times she's swiped his favorite sweatshirt, and questioning just how many of his sweaters are now shoved in the back of her closet.

She smiles. "Or the last." She has a bit of orange streaked against her cheek and he grins, content to leave it there and see how long it takes her to notice. She rolls her eyes at him and rubs at her cheek - but on the opposite side, missing it completely. "Are we still on for sailing on Wednesday?"

He nods his head, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "Aye. I expect my sweatshirt returned at the conclusion."

"You're annoying when you're smug."

"Now is that anyway to talk to your boyfriend?" He swipes back the bag and nudges her lightly behind the knee, pushing her back towards the closet. If he were looking at her instead of digging around in the bag, intent on finding just the right morsel, he would have had the delight of seeing her cheeks pink. As it is, she's already halfway buried when he goes back to looking at her, and all he can see is the faint blush on the back of her neck.

He wants to kiss her.

"Make sure you pack that little black leather number." She makes a  _harumph_  from deep within the closet. "I do so love that dress."

-/-

He's still munching on the cheetos in question when he arrives to the bar for his shift, winding his way through stacked stools and gleaming tabletops to the office in the back where Granny holes herself up most days. He still hasn't requested time off for next week, and he fears he can't put it off any longer. Emma sent him the confirmation details for their flight last night, and Granny is not a woman you spring something on.

"Good," she doesn't look up from her ledger book when he collapses into the seat across her desk - a faded and patched arm chair that looks like it was pulled from the clutches of death and situated in her office. "I've been waiting for you."

He digs his hand into the bag, the crinkling loud in the otherwise silent office. "My shift doesn't begin for another hour yet."

She ignores him, glasses perched low on her nose, her eyes squinted as she continues to write without looking up. He sometimes wonders how the vivacious and talkative Ruby is related to such a stalwart, monosyllabic iron wall of a woman - but then again, he's seen them both in a fit of rage and the resemblance is striking.

"What is is that you require of me, m'lady?" He's laying it on thick, he knows. But he's never requested time off before and he's not sure of her reaction.

Granny gives him a look like she knows exactly what he's doing. "I need you to monitor the shipment next week."

He blinks. "You usually monitor the shipment."

"Yes." She closes her ledger book and steeples her fingers over it, the long and jagged scar on her right hand shining a bit in the glow from her table lamp. The regulars at the bar have concocted all sorts of stories for where exactly she got the scar. Once he overheard that she received it wielding a crossbow. With the look she's giving him now, he doesn't doubt it. "But now I am asking you to do it. Is that an issue?"

"Uh, actually," He scratches behind his ear and shifts in his seat, the bag of cheetos falling to the floor. He doesn't move to pick them up. "I need to ask you something."

The look on her face shifts from mild annoyance to fierce concern. "Are you in some sort of trouble?" She leans closer to him. "Do you need money?"

For the second time in this conversation, he feels as if he's missing a bigger point. "Why in the bloody hell would you think that?"

"You're being all fidgety and weird. Out with it, Jones."

"I need next week off." He answers in a rush. At her blank look, he continues, hands gesturing in front of him in nervous agitation. It's an old habit of his, one Emma has tried to cure him of multiple times, but it lingers. "I'm accompanying Emma to her parent's home in Maine and I - " He swallows when she arches her eyebrow. " - I'd like to request the week off."

"Why?"

"Er, I'm going to Maine?" It comes out as a question even though he tries very hard to make his voice firm and sure.

She sighs. "No. Why are you going with her to her parents house? Did you two finally - " She makes some sort of complicated gesture with her hands and both eyebrows raise high on his forehead.

"Do I even want to try and surmise what that means?"

She gives him the same look she gives Will when he declares he's going to combine apple and caramel into a fall lager, and ends up pouring caramel syrup from the grocery into one of the distillery tanks. "Are you two dating?"

He fidgets. Again. "No."

"So you're just going with her, to her parents house, as friends."

"Well, not exactly."

She pinches the bridge of her nose, glasses jostling off her face, and she looks very much like she regrets starting this conversation. He can't say he blames her. After three deep sighs, she opens her eyes again, fixing him with a steely glare.

"This sounds like you two are scheming." He opens his mouth to explain the situation but she holds up her hand. "I don't want to know the details because my head will probably explode at how stupid the two of you are being, but this has the makings of a disaster." She leans forward on her elbows. "Am I correct in assuming this is some sort of - " She uses air quotes and he feels his jaw drop open at the level of ridiculousness this conversation is turning into. " - 'pretend to be dating so my parents lay off' scheme?"

He nods mutely and he wonders if he's that transparent, or if Granny's senses are just that freakishly family connection to Ruby finally makes striking sense.

"You have feelings for this girl, yes?"

His mouth opens and closes, but he chooses to nod because for once in his life, he's not sure what words to use.

"And you think that this is your chance to convince her that the two of you can be something more than whatever it is you have going on now?"

It's like she's cracked open his skull (and heart) and peered directly inside. It's a bit disconcerting from the woman who barely says more than three words to him in a given day. "How do you - "

She ignores his question and turns in her chair, shoving the ledger roughly back in the crammed bookshelf and grabbing another.

"You can have the week off, but I highly recommend you think long and hard about what this means, Killian." She doesn't look at him, instead flipping through the pages of her new book - the one that's dedicated to liquor shipments. "There's a very real chance you could get hurt here."

He forces a grin, doing his best to sound flippant and knowing he's failing miserably. "Are you worried about me, Granny?"

She looks up at him, the same concerned look on her face as when she apparently thought he was in debt to a bunch of mobsters and there was a bounty on his head. "I am." She holds his gaze. "I am also concerned about this shipment, because now I have to leave Will in charge and lord knows what could happen."

He feels the pressure in his chest loosen, just a bit, and slouches down in his chair to find his discarded bag of snacks. "Ah, the truth is revealed."

"I'm pragmatic at heart, Jones."

"Among other things."

They sit in comfortable silence, the stroke of her pen and the crunch of his cheetos filling the empty space of her office. He stares at the pictures on her wall and ignores the pressure in his chest, her words running on loop in the back of his mind. He know there is a very real possibility that this plan of his could backfire, and it could result in the ruination of his entire relationship with Emma. But it's worth it. The risk is worth it.

 _She_  is worth it.

A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.

"You should kiss her."

He looks up, startled. This conversation - from start to finish - has not gone as expected. "What?"

Granny is still looking down at her ledger, pen scratching away as she notes the week's sales. "You should practice kissing her before you do it in front of her parents. They'll know if it's your first kiss if you're stumbling over yourself in excitement."

He bristles. "I don't - "

"I've seen you when she comes in to the bar." The faintest hint of a smile tugs at her bottom lip. "You need to practice."

-/-

He considers Granny's advice throughout his entire shift, managing to spill three IPA's and an order of chili cheese fries over the front of his shirt. When he finally gets home, he collapses into his bed face first (sans shirt, he's not willing to launder his sheets at 3am on a Tuesday) and tries not to think of what it would be like to kiss Emma.

Tries and fails miserably.

His dreams are only of that, and his thoughts continue in much the same direction the following day. He imagines kissing her while he pours his morning coffee, imagines the softness of her lips while he begins a haphazard pile of clothes to bring with him on the trip. The thoughts are hardly new, but they come with a realization that he'll have the answer to all these ponderings in less than a week's time.

Potentially less than a day's time.

When he finally arrives at her apartment on Wednesday for their boating plans, he's going half out of his mind with the back and forth. He barely spares her landlord a glance - situated in a bathrobe, lurking in the corner of the lobby like some bloody reptilian creature - as he slips through the door with her spare key, stomping up the steps to her third floor apartment and letting himself in.

She's in the kitchen, and he toes off his boots next to hers before seeking her out.

"We should kiss."

All in all, not his best opening line. She gives him a look from over the refrigerator door, a slight arch to her eyebrow. "Really? This again."

He shrugs and tries not to scratch behind his ear, knowing it's a dead giveaway to the way his stomach is rolling in half anxiety, half anticipation. She's wearing a green henley today, and her eyes practically glow in the dim light of the kitchen.

He wants to kiss her.

"We're going to have to do it at some point or another." He shrugs again when she goes back to perusing her barren fridge, a strange look pulling her lips tight. "The first time I kiss you will not be in front of your Uncle Leroy. Think of the nightmares I'll endure."

The mug from her hot chocolate - the one she was sipping at when he let himself in - is still sitting on the counter top. He wonders if her lips taste like chocolate, too.

Okay. So  _perhaps_  ulterior motives are at work.

She's silent for a moment longer and he's just about to offer to pick up some Chinese because he is not eating her version of grilled cheese - he's not - when she takes a deep breath, shutting the fridge door and swiveling to face him with her hands on her hips.

"Alright."

He blinks at her. "Alright?"

He was not expecting a quick agreement.

She gestures between the two of them. "Let's do this thing." She has her determined look on - the one she wears when she's chasing down a perp or she's trying to get the toaster unjammed with a butter knife. "Unless you want to wait until we're out on the boat, so I can kick you into the water if you suck at it."

He frowns, the challenge in her words making him stand a bit straighter. "I assure you, Swan. I do not  _suck_  at it."

She hums an unconvinced noise under her breath, shuffling closer. "Alright, so - " There it is again, that clenched jaw and furrowed brows and the set to her shoulders that makes it look like she's going to battle, never to return, instead of kissing him in her kitchen. "Let's just - " She fists her hands in the material of his shirt and tugs, causing him to stumble into her, hands finding her hips in an effort to regain balance. He doesn't have a moment to appreciate it, though, because she is suddenly surging forward - pressing her mouth to his.

She doesn't linger, pulling back and dropping her hands, stepping out of his hold. He would have half a mind to wonder if it even happened if he didn't feel like he was just punched in the mouth.

By her face.

"There." She doesn't look at him, instead fixing her gaze at a point over his shoulder. "Done."

He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip. "Next time you plan to attack, a word of warning would be much appreciated."

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "You wanted a kiss. I gave you a kiss."

"What you gave me is a bloody contusion."

"You're being dramatic again."

"And you're being stubborn." He tilts his head until her gaze meets his and steps forward, the toes of his socks pressing against hers. "We're going to have to kiss. Convincingly. As a couple. May I remind you now that this was your idea." She smiles, just a tiny curl of her lips, and her shoulders relax. "It's just me, Swan." His heart beats a little bit faster in his chest when her hands curl in the front of his shirt again, the pair of them swaying into each other's space. Her knees knock against his and he smoothes his palms against her back to keep her steady. "It's just a kiss."

It's just the only thing he's been thinking about since she first suggested this plan and he practically tripped over himself agreeing to it.

"Okay." She nods, but she still has that crease between her eyebrows so he presses at it with his thumb.

"Relax."

She huffs, her warm breath ghosting over his throat. When he's this close he can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. "Are you going to kiss me or - "

"Close your eyes."

"What?"

He drops his head back and looks at the ceiling, at the small little water stain from the apartment above that they tried painting over to no avail in the left corner of the room. "If it helps for you to pretend I am someone else," He drops his chin back to his chest and arches an eyebrow. "Then by all means."

She gives him that same thin-lipped look of consideration that she did earlier, eyes darting back and forth between his own. He wants her to say she doesn't need to pretend. He wants her to say that she doesn't  _want_  to pretend. But her eyes drift shut and her fingers twitch a bit in his shirt and he swallows down his disappointment and closes his eyes - lets his nose brush hers before dipping his mouth down.

Gently this time.

He keeps it chaste. Nothing more that a soft pressure against her lips. But he can indeed taste the chocolate she was drinking earlier and feel the ends of her hair brushing his forearms, the honey scent of her shampoo making him feel dizzy - like he's not just carefully kissing his best friend in her kitchen but actually tumbling head over heels over and over and over.

He always told himself when this inevitably happened, that it wouldn't live up to his fantasy expectations. That it would, in fact, be just a kiss. That he wouldn't need to press his palm tighter to her back to keep himself standing upright.

She grips his shirt harder when she feels the pressure of his hand, tilts her head to the side and digs her nose into his 's far from graceful but her bottom lip slips between his with the movement, a choked off noise caught in the back of her throat that could be real or could be in his head and he wants -  _bloody hell_  - he wants -

He wants to slide the hand that's at the small of her back into her hair, drag his fingers through her golden strands and tug her head back until her mouth opens on a gasp, his tongue tasting the chocolate that's there, her teeth dragging against his bottom lip. He wants to back her up until she's pressed against the counter and he can duck down and lift beneath her knees, settling her on the tile and tucking himself between her hips, feel the heat of her against his front as she groans in the back of her throat.

He wants this to be real.

But wants and reality have always been at odds in his life.

He pulls back enough so that he can see those freckles again, her eyelashes brushing the apples of her cheeks. He swallows and tries to focus on breathing properly, ignoring the way her tongue swipes at her bottom lip because if he notices it, if he watches her teeth bite down just after, he'll kiss her again.

She blinks up at him, her nose brushing his, before she takes a step back. He wants to ask her how she's managing to look so unaffected when he feels like he's been turned on his head, but he fears that might give the game away. She licks her bottom lip again, and he has to dig his fingernails in his palm to keep his body from jolting.

"That should work. Want to get Chinese for dinner?"

He wants to kiss her.

Again.

He coughs to clear his suddenly dry throat. "That sounds grand."

-/-

"I can't believe you got seven egg rolls." The bag is clutched tight to her chest as she stands on the edge of the dock, waiting for him to unfasten the ropes before she climbs aboard. She bounces up and down on her toes and he's glad he packed that extra sweatshirt, her leather coat and beanie not nearly enough for the brisk wind out on the water. "And he probably gave you an extra because they don't give out egg rolls in odd numbers."

He extends his hand to her when the proper work is completed, her fingers cold around his as she carefully steps aboard the boat. "Precisely my plan, darling." He guides her carefully to her usual spot and tosses his sweatshirt in her lap, climbing over her extended legs as he maneuvers around the boat. They've begun drifting a bit, and he has a place in mind for tonight's excursion.

They do this sometimes, when they both manage to have the night off. Take a growler from the brewery and some takeout (or once upon a time, terribly burnt grilled cheese that almost killed him miles away from a docking point) and just drift for a bit. She knows it helps ease his mind when he's out on the water, and he likes to think it eases hers as well.

She's halfway through her second egg roll when he joins her, sitting opposite and propping his legs up on the small crate to her right. She hasn't mentioned anything further about their shared moment in the kitchen and he's convincing himself he's content with that, despite the desire to  _practice_  again sitting hot and heavy in his stomach.

She finishes the remainder of her egg roll and he smirks, her fingers leaving twin grease stains on his favorite sweatshirt.

"Seven doesn't seem so absurd now, does it?"

She shakes her head, a couple strands coming loose from her knit cap. He's guided them far enough into the river that the glow of the city lights doesn't touch them, a muted sound carrying over the water from the cars on the bridge. Sometimes when they come out here he spins stories about the music they hear - elaborate tellings about the other boats on the water and that old jazz song singing sadly over the water. Sometimes she tells stories too, flat on her back and pointing at the stars they can't see, her temple pressed to his shoulder and her legs sprawled.

"Sometimes you're right." She tilts her head to the side, gnawing on the end of her plastic fork as he carefully opens his fried rice. A tendril of heat curls itself out of the carton and his stomach growls in appreciation. "Like with the kissing thing - " He almost chokes on his shrimp, god help him. "You were right. It was good to practice."

He fights to keep his voice steady, and the shrimp in his mouth. "Care to say that again love? Perhaps recorded?" He arches an eyebrow and swallows down his dinner. "Perhaps in writing?"

"Just don't want you making an ass out of yourself in front of my whole town, is all."

"Do you intend to kiss me in front of the whole town, Swan?"

She shrugs. "I haven't told you about the kissing booth at the block party? I signed you up."

"What?"

She smiles his favorite smile - the one where the dimple in her chin flashes - and kicks him lightly with the toe of her boot. She moves the bags of food around her until she can shuffle in her spot, back flat against the worn wood of the deck and gaze aimed upward as she studiously ignores his question. They're too close to the city tonight to see the stars, but she always says it's more the knowledge that they're there - shining  _somewhere_.

"When we get back from Storybrooke," her voice is quiet and small, and he stops chewing to tilt his head down to hers. "Do you think you can take me out to see the stars?"

He circles his hand around her ankle, tapping his pointer at the thick grey sock peeking out.

"Aye, Swan. I think I can manage that." A beat of silence, the water lapping at the sides of his modest boat. "You were kidding about the booth, right?"

She snickers.


	4. Chapter 4

 

**Chapter 4**

 

It’s not that she didn’t think they would have to kiss. After all, part of the whole thinking behind this plan was that she would get to have the more – for once – without any of the consequences of a real relationship. (Without her messing it up and him running away and her losing the one person she depends on more than anyone else.) And she certainly thought that their little charade would involve them kissing. Maybe a peck at dinner, a brush of lips in front of her parents. She just didn’t expect it to feel so damn good.

 

Her belly flips as soon as her boot makes contact with the worn deck of his modest boat and she’s sure it has less to do with the gentle lap of the water, and everything to do with the way his fingers curl around her own. She can still feel the brush of his lips, the way he had carefully tucked her in his arms like she was something precious. It’s been a long time since she’s been kissed like that and it wasn’t even _real_.

 

She focuses on the eggrolls in her lap instead of following his progress around his ship – stepping over her legs and untangling the ropes from the dock to push them gently into the river. He hands her his sweatshirt and she pulls it gratefully over her head, the sandalwood soap he always uses in the shower immediately surrounding her.

 

It’s not exactly helping her think.

 

Maybe she’s not as settled as she thought.

 

(Maybe this plan isn’t such a good idea if she’s already feeling like she’s drowning in him.)

 

But then he makes a quip about the eggrolls and he sits across from her with his legs stretched out and hair wild from the strong wind blowing in off the water. His boot knocks against hers and a piece of her shifts into place, her heart finally slowing down its rapid hum and that turning in her stomach relaxing. It’s still just them. Just because they’ve kissed now (and will kiss again, _christ_ ) doesn’t mean anything has to change.

 

Still, though.

 

“When we get back from Storybrooke,” she fists her fingers in the material of his sweatshirt. “Do you think you can take me out to see the stars?”

 

She needs to make sure that at the end of all of this, no matter what happens in Storybrooke, she gets to keep him. That nothing will change and they’ll still spend Wednesday nights out on the water, flat on their backs and looking up at the stars. That he’ll still meet her at Ruby’s for burgers after his shift and give her free onion rings when she comes to visit at the bar.

 

His fingers dance along the laces of her boots before circling lightly around her ankle. He taps once, eyes shining in the light of the moon, and smiles so wide that a bit of eggroll falls to the deck from his mouth.

 

“Aye, Swan. I think I can manage that.”

 

-/-

 

She heads to the diner early the next day, thoughts still too muddled to sleep in and enjoy another rare day off. She managed to extend her vacation beyond the week her and Killian are taking for Maine, and she ignores the still half-packed bag of clothes in the corner of her bedroom for the lure of good hot chocolate and a bear claw at Granny’s.

 

Ruby is on her as soon as she’s through the door.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Uh,” Emma pulls the beanie off her head, working the smooth down errant strands as she cranes her head to where the coffee is. So close, and yet so very far. “I’m having breakfast.”

 

Ruby’s eyes narrow dangerously, her fingers curling around her forearm. “No. What are you doing with _Killian_?”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes.” Red nails bite into her skin and she winces. “Oh. Now, please tell me why I needed to find out about this little plan of yours from my _grandmother_ and not you.”

 

“Can I have coffee first, at least?”

 

Ruby rolls her eyes, forcibly dragging her over to the counter by the hand still latched on to red leather. She stumbles along beside her, boots slipping against the floor. “I’ll make it a hot chocolate if you spare no detail.”

 

“There’s really not much to tell. How did Granny find out anyway?”

 

“Killian told her.”

 

“Killian is gossiping with Granny now?” She nudges the mug on the counter forward with an encouraging eyebrow lift and Ruby relents, picking it up and yelling back to Victor for a hot chocolate. She turns back to her with an eye roll.

 

“No, Killian needed to tell her why he is suddenly requesting a week off after not taking a single vacation day in the past two years. Except for that one time, when you were so sick you couldn’t even move from your bed and he fed you soup.”

 

There’s a significance in Ruby’s tone she doesn’t want to consider, so she works on shredding her napkin into tiny strips instead. “Oh.”

 

“I know you know more words than that.”

 

“And I know there’s a point you’re trying to make. But I’m tired and I’m hungry and I came here for a bear claw, not a lecture, so please spit it out.”

 

Ruby’s face immediately softens, elbows pressed to the countertop. She slides a perfect hot chocolate with extra whipped cream across to Emma, and she takes it with a frown, glaring down at the sprinkle of cinnamon on top.

 

“You’re in love with him, Emma.” She opens her mouth for the standard rebuttal but Ruby waves her hand in dismissal. “You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you, and I don’t understand why the two of you insist on this runaround.”

 

“He’s not in love with me.”

 

Ruby frowns at her, eyebrows raised in skepticism. There’s an old man down at the end of the line of stools who keeps not-so-subtly tapping his spoon against his coffee mug but Ruby ignores him. “Emma. He is definitely in love with you.”

 

“He’s – “ She pinches the bridge of her nose and thinks of lingering glances shared over bar tops, his fingers twisted through hers and his arm over her shoulder. She also thinks of missed opportunities and close to ten years of friendship. “He’s not in love with me, Ruby. We aren’t discussing this.”

 

“I think we have to.”

 

“No, we don’t!” The old man abruptly stops his tapping and she hears Victor stop bustling about in the kitchen. “It would have happened if it was supposed to, and it hasn’t, so this is what we are. This is what it is.”

 

Ruby doesn’t flinch, holding her gaze steady. “Maybe he’s waiting for you to do something.”

 

She shakes her head, suddenly feeling like crying.

 

“No, it’s supposed to be like this. We’re supposed to be friends.”

 

“Then why,” Ruby curls her hands around Emma’s. “Why on earth go through all this trouble with fake dating and a cross-country trip? You could have made up a million excuses to your mom. Why this whole thing?”

 

She lifts one shoulder. “I just wanted to see what it was like?” It comes out a question even though she tries to shape her words into something firm and confident. Something flippant, so she doesn’t sound so desperate.

 

“And you’ll be okay giving that up? When you both come back here?”

 

“I have to be.” She takes a careful sip of her hot chocolate, shoulders relaxing when she tastes the cinnamon. Ruby swipes at the whipped cream clinging to her nose with an eye roll and a smile. “I’m not willing to lose him as a friend. I’d rather us have that for forever, then try and lose everything. It’s not worth it.”

 

“You might change your mind in Storybrooke.”

 

She shakes her head. “I won’t. I can’t.” She sighs, suddenly feeling like she’s run a mile or been thrown down a flight of steps. She didn’t come here for introspection. She came here for a donut. “Now can I have my bear claw please?”

 

-/-

 

Ruby’s words hang heavy on her shoulders as she stares out her kitchen window to the city below. She had woken well before her alarm, and the only way she feels any sort of calm is by watching the early morning drivers make their deliveries to the little bakery on the corner – losing herself in narrating a dialogue for them instead of focusing on the way her stomach churns every time she thinks of pressing her lips to Killian’s in front of her parents – of letting him go again once the week is over – of _lying_.

 

(To her parents and to Henry and to him and to herself.)

 

She loses herself instead of thinking about this plan and how everyone _else_ thinks it’s a disaster. 

 

She loves the stillness of early morning almost as much as she loves looking at the stars. The city is still quiet as dull grey light filters in through her kitchen window, her toes cold beneath her socks as she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet. She can just make out the sun cresting over the tops of buildings, a single shaft of gold brushing her cheek when she places her coffee mug down and picks up her phone to text Killian again.  

 

He’s late.

 

She knew he was going to be late.

 

As if on cue, as soon as her thumb taps at the send button on her screen, her front door bangs open, a muffled thump and then a groan sounding from the depths of her hallway. She smiles to herself as she hears the unmistakable sound of him shuffling across hardwood, and then the heavy creaking of her couch in the living room.

 

She leans back to see a pair of legs hanging off the end of the sofa, black messy hair on the arm rest as he buries his face in her favorite blanket. He groans again and she rolls her eyes.

 

“Always with the drama.”

 

“Are we walking to Maine?” He shifts onto his side, blue eyes narrowed at her from just over the arm rest. “Is that why you required me so early?”

 

“I told you,” she sets her mug down in the sink and brings him his own, leaning over his prone form to place it on the coffee table by his head. It’s black. Just the way he likes it. “My mom wants us there in the early afternoon so we can help with setting up decorations around town. I thought you would be over this whole _not a morning person_ thing, anyway.”

 

“Why do you think I chose a job in which I only work nights?” he grumbles, reaching for his coffee with another dramatic twist of his torso. She scratches her fingers through his hair just as he takes a careful sip and he groans in appreciation. She tells herself it’s because she’s trying to soften him up and get him out the door, but that would be an excuse. “Have I ever told you that you’re a remarkable woman, Swan?”

 

She flicks the edge of his ear, the pointed part that makes him look like an elf. “I thought you were just cursing my name for making our flight so early.”

 

“Ah, yes, well.” He lifts his coffee mug up in explanation. “A fine cup of coffee makes all the difference.” He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners over the lip of bright blue ceramic. “Are you all packed?”

 

“I am.” If the suitcase stuffed to within an inch of its life and a backpack crammed with things she definitely won’t need are considered packed. His is probably freakishly neat and organized, with rubber bands around his socks to keep them from unrolling. Freak. “Is your car downstairs?”

 

He crosses his legs at the ankles, burrowing further down into the couch with a happy little sigh. “It is. I think your landlord may have it towed before I muster the energy to leave, though. I saw him watch me pull up through the slats in his window.”

 

“I don’t understand why he hates you so much.”

 

“He claims I stole what was once his, whatever the bloody hell that means. Now,” he leans up on his elbow and downs the rest of his coffee in three gulps. “Shall we?”

 

He holds out his hand, palm up, and she reaches for it without thinking. His hand squeezes hers with a tiny little quirk of his lips and she feels her unease settle.

 

It’s him. It’s them.

 

Nothing has to change.

 

This will work.

 

-/-

 

There’s a particular smell that comes with airplanes. Stale air and the plastic from the little blankets they hand out and weird peanut sauce from the chicken they’re trying to pass off as Thai in the back corner where the flight attendants crowd together. It always gives her a headache just behind her eyes and she frowns, crossing her legs at the ankles and slumping down in her seat.

 

Killian bends closer to her to reach for the Sky Mall magazine (“Bet it’s one of the last issues, Swan. They’re going out of business. It’s the end of an era, it is.”) and she gets a whiff of spearmint toothpaste and coffee, gripping his arm tight and holding him in place, half bent over her and hand stuck in the little seat flap.

 

He freezes when she buries her face in his neck.

 

“Uh, Swan?”

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, the soft fabric of his flannel brushing her chin. “Airplane smell gives me a headache and you smell nice.”

 

She doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking at her. “Why, Swan. I think that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

He huffs when she doesn’t release her hold, pressing her nose more firmly into his neck. His skin is warm and this is – this is nice. He smells really, really nice.

 

“This is hardly comfortable.”

 

“Sorry I’m not sorry.”

 

“You’re going to get yelled at by the attendant. She’s already not pleased with you for switching seating arrangements around.”

 

The plane isn’t big. There’s only two columns of seats; six across in each row. Three, a break, and then three more. She and Killian had been assigned the two on the end and she had _tried_ asking the guy plastered against the window to move, but when he had refused she had taken it to a higher power.

 

Specifically, Cora the flight attendant.

 

Cora the flight attendant who had made such a severe frown at the request that Emma almost gave it up.

 

“You told me once you like watching the clouds when you flew,” she leans back from his neck reluctantly, fisting her hands in the sleeves of her sweater and crossing her arms. “Something about _an endless ocean of white_.”

 

He always smiles when she makes an attempt at his accent, but this one is different. His dimples wink in his cheeks as he blinks at her, the tips of his ears pink.

 

“You remember that?”

 

Another wave of _something_ comes from the guy sitting on her right. Stale chips and _ugh_ , axe cologne.

 

“Yeah, I do. Now please tell me you have a sweatshirt or something in your carry on.”

 

-/-

 

He does. It’s the faded green one from orientation week of college – the one with the ripped neckline because she hates when sweatshirts are too tight against her throat  – the logo almost completely faded away by one too many washes.

 

He’s fast asleep with half of the headphone set he’s sharing with her wedged between his ear and her shoulder, so she reaches for his iPhone, switching from INXS to something a little more soothing. As soon as Vance Joy starts humming in her ear he sighs, pressing his face further into her shoulder and muttering under his breath, fingers flexing over her knee.

 

“Does your boyfriend want a drink?” She almost jumps out of her skin when the flight attendant (not Cora) taps gently on her shoulder. Killian grumbles and she barely gets a glimpse of blue through narrowed eyelids before he’s curling into himself again, forehead pressed against the window this time. She offers an apologetic smile to the woman, and the man next to her she accidentally elbowed.

 

Boyfriend. It makes her stomach flip.

 

She supposes she should get used to it.

 

“A water, please.”

 

As soon as she balances two tiny glasses of water on her tray, Killian’s head lolls back against her shoulder. She taps his nose and he swats her hand away, flicking her in the side without opening his eyes.

 

 

_You’ll be okay giving that up?_

She sighs.

 

-/-

 

He looks infinitely more alert standing in front of the baggage claim, thumb tucked into his belt loop as he scans the bags going around and around the carousel with narrowed eyes. His bag is already sitting neatly at his feet – red and obnoxious with a little suitcase tag clearly marking it as property of _K. JONES._

“Mine’s the black one.” She supplies from just behind his shoulder, hiding a smile behind her hand when he huffs.

 

“I’m aware. It hasn’t come out yet.”

 

“Are you sure? Cause – “ She bounces up and down on her toes. “I see a bunch of black bags.”

 

In fact the baggage claim has _only_ black bags at this point. And her suitcase doesn’t have a fancy tag like his does.

 

“I assure you, love. Your bag has not yet appeared.” He doesn’t move his gaze from the steady stream on monotony, tapping his free hand against his lips. She’s just about to question him again when he moves forward in three quick strides and plucks a bag from the belt.

 

“Here we are,” he says with a grin, handing her the bag with flourish. She stares at it blankly, and then looks back to him.

 

“How did you do that?”

 

He’s busy steering her through the crowds to the waiting area outside where they’re supposed to meet her parents. She had been greeted with 10 texts upon their landing, all a various assortment of emojis from her mother.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Know which one was mine,” she adjusts her bag over her shoulder to a more comfortable position. He sighs when he sees her struggling, slipping it off her arm and onto his without breaking his stride. “I didn’t even know which one was mine.”

 

“You have a burn mark on the edge of yours,” he holds up her bag in explanation, pointing to the front left corner. “From where you left your bag sitting in front of Ruby’s fireplace for far too long.”

 

The brisk Maine wind smacks her in the face as they exit, a sharp breath sucked in through her teeth at the sudden cold. Her stomach flips for no particular reason when he stills as well, turning his body into her and staring down – that stupid smirk on his face that he gets when he knows he’s bested her at something.

 

A lock of his hair falls over his forehead with the wind and she presses it back, the smirk on his face melting into something softer. She can’t help it when her thumb traces the shell of his ear and then the line of his jaw, his beard rough beneath her fingertips. It’s a bit much, but she can’t stop thinking about the little burn mark on the end of her bag and how he had known to look for it.

 

His skin is warm when she slides her palm against his neck, pressing up on her toes until she can feel his breath against her lips. She means to kiss him slow and gentle, but someone bumps into her back and her hips knock into his, his palms steady against the small of her back – his pinky just barely brushing beneath her jacket to the thin material of her sweater beneath.

 

He makes a noise low in his throat when she tilts her chin up and allows herself to kiss him a bit harder – just to see if he still tastes like the little bag of honey roasted peanuts they gave out on the plane. It’s not a part of the plan – but then again, feeling the way she does with her palm against his skin and his beard brushing against her cheek – that was never part of the plan either.

 

She drops back to the flats of her feet, gnawing on her bottom lip. He opens and closes his mouth – eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Uh, what – “

 

“My mom,” she supplies quietly, spying the pale blue Volvo amongst the various cab companies jostling for paying customers. “I see her car.”

 

Understanding lights his eyes. “Ah, I see.” He readjusts the bags on his shoulder and holds out his hand. “Shall we make our way over, then?”

 

Mary Margaret is out of the driver’s seat before it’s in park, her arms wrapped around Emma’s shoulders with a ferocious tug that defies her small figure. Emma smiles and hugs her back. It’s been too long since she’s seen her mom.

 

“Oh honey, it’s so good to see you.” She pulls back with a teary grin and Emma rolls her eyes.

 

“Easy, mom. It’s only been a couple months.”

 

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath and brushes the tears off her cheeks. “You know how I get.” She finally turns her attention to Killian standing just slightly behind her, and Emma feels the tension rise in her shoulders.

 

“Killian!” Mary Margaret releases her to give Killian a warm hug. “What are you doing here? I thought Emma was bringing – “

 

Killian shoots her a look over her mother’s shoulder. Emma winces.

 

“My boyfriend. I did. It’s Killian.” When Mary Margaret pulls out of Killian’s arms and turns to give her a questioning look, Emma shrugs. “Surprise?”

 

“Oh. Well, that’s – “ She shakes her head and fixes a bright grin on her face. “That’s lovely!”

 

A cab behind them lays on the horn and she mutters something under her breath. “Alright now, let’s get your stuff loaded up and head to the house.”

 

She disappears to the driver’s side with a creative hand gesture towards the cab that has Emma snickering under her breath. Her mother may be sweet, but there’s some fire there, too.

 

“Didn’t tell your mother, I see.” Killian mutters as they load their suitcases in the back hatch of the car. There’s a collection of discarded art supplies and a soccer ball in the back trunk – a fire extinguisher her dad probably put in there and an errant finger painting from one of the students. She shoves it aside and wedges her bag next to Killian’s.

 

She shrugs. “I figured it would be better as a surprise.”

 

“Well, she definitely seems surprised.”

 

“Judgmental, you mean. She seems judgmental.”

 

Killian snickers and leans up to close the hatch when a car behind them honks, obviously not enjoying their leisurely pace. “She seems lovely, Swan. Just as I remember.”

 

He tangles his fingers with hers as he leads her to the car, swinging their hands back and forth before opening the door and allowing her to slide before him. She rests her hand on his knee when he situates himself next to her, conscious of Mary Margaret’s hawk gaze in the rearview mirror.

 

“Where’s dad?”

 

“Henry missed his train from Boston.” Mary Margaret’s eyes smile at her as she merges into the traffic lane. It’s not the first time Henry has missed a mode of transportation. The kid buries his head in a book and forgets where he is, nine times out of ten. “Your dad went to go pick him up. They should be home in time for dinner.”

 

“Dinner?”

 

“I figured I’d at least feed you before putting you to work.”

 

“A kind sovereign, then.”

 

Mary Margaret’s smile falters when Killian speaks up, eyes narrowing in contemplation. Emma knows that look. It’s been directed on her more times than she can count – typically when Mary Margaret has information she wants to weasel out of her. She hums under her breath and turns down the radio. “Something like that.”

 

Killian shifts next to her, his fingers tightening over her shoulder. It seems he realizes he’s in for it, too.

 

Okay, so maybe Emma should have mentioned something before they got here.

 

“Are you still working at that bar, Killian?”

 

“Aye, yes, actually I – “

 

“Brewery, mom. It’s a brewery. And Killian makes all the beer himself.” Twin spots of color appear high on Killian’s cheeks and Emma smiles. “Granny plans on handing it over to him though, so he’ll be owner soon enough.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why you keep saying that. The old broad has no intentions of retiring any time soon.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

He smiles down at her, eyebrow raised, cheeks still pink. “I suppose we shall.”

 

“And your boat?” Mary Margaret weaves in and out of traffic, eyes still darting to Killian every now and then. Too often, really, for a woman who should be focusing on the road. “Do you still have your little boat?”

 

“Ship,” Killian corrects with a grin. “And yes, she is as seaworthy as ever.”

 

The questions continue for the better part of the forty-five minute drive back to the small town of Storybrooke, the long flight and the gently amused, lilting rumble of Killian’s voice against her shoulder making her doze in and out. Mary Margaret steers clear of prickly relationship questions that she and Killian had rehearsed answers to, probably waiting for her father for that particular interrogation. Instead, their conversation circles the merits of proper cookware for béarnaise sauce (she wishes she were surprised but she’s not) and the tattoos on Killian’s forearms – what his five-year plan is and how long he sees himself staying in Portland. She would be sorry for ditching on him mentally if she weren’t so tired. Honestly, he brought this on himself – the soft flannel of his button up more comfortable against her than it has any damn right being.

 

Killian sits up suddenly against her, jostling her against the window. He steadies her with his hands against her shoulders, but doesn’t stop craning his neck to stare at something just outside.

 

“Is that the infamous town sign that Emma drove into as a teenager?”

 

She cringes, palm against her mouth as she fights back a yawn. She definitely shouldn’t have told him that story.

 

Mary Margaret looks delighted in the front seat. She slows down as they pass the sign, slender hand extended. “If you look closely, you can still see the folded edge where Marco was unable to bend it back.”

 

-/-

 

Mary Margaret has always had her best interests at heart. It’s just – sometimes – they disagree on what that is.

 

Like the time when she wanted to wear her converse to high school graduation and Mary Margaret had insisted upon the sensible blue wedges instead and Emma ate it in front of the entire school when she tried to navigate the stairs in shoes that made her feel like she was on a newborn giraffe’s legs.

 

And like now, when her mom is giving her major side eye as they stand hip to hip at the sink, rinsing out the mugs of coffee that greeted them upon their arrival. Killian had retreated upstairs with their bags – probably scouting out an exit strategy.

 

“Killian seems nice.”

 

She sighs, bearing down harder on the poor mug with a dancing dwarf on it. It’s a wonder the thing doesn’t crack, honestly, but there’s a clump of sugar stuck inside and she’s determined to get it.

 

“You’ve met him before, Mom.”

 

“Yes, but that was different. You were friends then.” Mary Margaret gives up the pretense of rinsing mugs and turns, delicately drying her hands on a dishtowel. More dancing dwarves. Her mother has a problem. “Just friends is different than _dating_ , Emma.”

 

She snorts. “I’m aware.”

 

Oh, is she aware.

 

“Is it – “ Mary Margaret considers her words. “You didn’t say anything. Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure you’re happy?”

 

“Of course I’m happy.” It’s not so much a lie when she thinks of Killian’s sleepy mussed up hair from the plane, the lines from her sweater printed on his cheek. “Killian makes me happy.”

 

Mary Margaret frowns. “Then why didn’t you tell your dad and me? Henry?”

 

“We wanted to figure it out for ourselves first. You know how I am with relationships. We just wanted some time for us.”

 

Mary Margaret’s face screams quiet contemplation, and Emma is grateful she doesn’t have a mug in her hand when she begins her next sentence.

 

“You know, I ran into Walsh at the grocery this morning. He seemed excited you were coming back when I mentioned it.”

 

She angrily hits the faucet off with the heel of her hand, swiping the maniacal dwarf towel and rubbing her knuckles against it. “Seriously? You’re seriously pushing Walsh when I’m here with Killian?”

 

“You two seemed to hit it off so well and this thing with Killian is so sudden! Who knows if it will last – “

 

“Oh my _god_.”

 

“ – and who knows how you’ll feel in a month or two. It wouldn’t hurt to keep communication open between yourself and Walsh.”

 

“Keep – “ she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Keep communication open? Are you suggesting I go on a date with Walsh and what, have Killian tag along?”

 

Mary Margaret shrugs. “Maybe Henry could – “

 

“Mom!” Beneath the shock that her mother is actually encouraging her to cheat on a boyfriend, there’s a tiny fissure of anger that licks along her spine. Killian is her choice. Killian is the one she brought home. Killian is the one that makes her happy. That should be enough. “This conversation is ridiculous. I am not going on a date with Walsh.”

 

“Honey,” Mary Margaret reaches for her hands still clenched around the dishtowel. “I just want you to be happy.”

 

“I am happy.” She suddenly, inexplicably, feels like crying. “With Killian.”

 

The hand around hers squeezes. “But for how long? It started quickly. These things sometimes fizzle out.” When Emma opens her mouth, Mary Margaret rushes to continue. “It’s no one’s fault, of course. It just happens.” 

 

Maybe it’s because she’s in the house she spent her formative years, but old teenage rebellion rises like a flame within her. She sticks out her chin, squares her shoulders, and slips her hands out of Mary Margaret’s grasp.

 

“Well, it’s not going to happen.” She swallows, eyes narrowing. “Because we’re engaged.”

 

-/-

 

He’s carefully hanging one of his button ups in her closet when she comes tearing into the room. It doesn’t look like he’s heard any of the conversation from the kitchen below, his face set in a serene sort of smile as he regards the picture of little her and little Henry on her dresser.

 

(A picture from her seventeenth birthday party, right after they were formally adopted. Henry is on her back with his gangly arms twisted around her neck and they’re both wearing party hats. She remembers it was the first birthday she ever had a party for and Henry had been so excited, he had gone all out with the decorations. Hats and all. Because she never had it before.)

 

He takes one look at her, hangs the shirt next to a forgotten summer dress that is a stark reminder why 90s fashion should never return, and closes the closet door, giving her his full attention.

 

“What is it?”

 

She rocks back on her heels, careful to keep her voice low. Mary Margaret isn’t at the level where she would follow her up the stairs and listen at the door, but it’s a close thing. “I may have done something stupid.”

 

He smiles as he steps forward, palms rubbing up and down the outside of her arms. It makes her feel better – a little more grounded, a little less hysterical – and she closes her eyes, finally quitting the rocking.

 

“The last time you said that, love, it was hardly the dire situation you thought up in your mind.” He pulls her back so she is forced to meet his gaze. “There are far worse conundrums I’ve found myself in than pretending to be yours. And now look at us, about to have pumpkin pie as boyfriend and girlfriend.”

 

Mary Margaret had made a pointed comment earlier as Killian headed up the stairs. Pumpkin pie was to happen as _soon as_ David and Henry arrived. There was to be no lingering upstairs alone in rooms, and doors were to be open at all times. Because apparently Emma is still 16.  

 

She winces. “How about having pumpkin pie as soon to be married boyfriend and girlfriend?”

 

He blinks at her, a furrow between his brows. He opens his mouth but abruptly closes it, a contemplative look twisting his features as he tilts his head to the side. “I believe the proper term is betrothed.”

 

“I’m sorry. I just – my mom was asking me all of these questions and she thought there was still a possibility that I could be into Walsh, despite me bringing you to this – and I panicked. I totally panicked and I just blurted it out and – what are you doing?”

 

She stares down at him as he releases her shoulders and bends to one knee, hand fiddling with the ring on his pinky. He grins up at her once it’s sitting neatly in his palm, cradling her hands with his and pressing his lips to her knuckles. She can feel each word shaped against her skin, and she breathes out shakily through her nose.

 

This isn’t real. She knows that.

 

But she still feels like a vortex has opened beneath her feet.

 

“You’ll have to forgive the hardware, as notice was short.” He grins up at her, sliding the ring that once belonged to his mother and has never once left his hand in the years that she has known him on her left ring finger. It’s a perfect fit, and she feels a burning behind her eyes. “I of course accept your proposal to be your fake betrothed. Will you do me the honor of accepting mine?”

 

She frowns at him, throat thick. She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve this man in her life, but she’s pretty damn grateful for it. It only makes her more resolute with this plan – to keep him as her friend. So she can _keep_ _him_. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for all of this to get so out of control.”

 

He stands up with a huff, patting her left hand reassuringly. The metal of the ring sits heavy on her finger, and she drags her thumb along the intricate braiding.

 

“As I said, Swan,” he grips her shoulders again with both hands, jostling her and widening his eyes. “There are far worse situations to find one ’s self in. Now come, I believe I hear young Henry downstairs and I don’t want your father to find me in your bedroom,” he drops his voice with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Door closed.”

 

She keeps her feet firmly planted, even though she can definitely hear the heavy thump of her dad’s boots and the more excitable stomping of Henry below.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He grins and gives her a bright blue wink. “Always, darling.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Her cheek finds his chest somewhere around the thirty-minute mark of their journey, his hand tangling in her hair and rubbing at the base of her neck automatically as Mary Margaret questions him on the merits of using rosemary in béarnaise sauce. He may be a humble bartender, but he is no barbarian, and he tries to keep the amusement from his voice when he quietly corrects her with tarragon and her eyebrows jump in the rearview mirror.

Emma chuckles against him, patting his knee lightly. It seems he’s passed some sort of test, though he does not understand the importance of preparing a proper béarnaise, nor its reflection on him as an approved suitor for Emma. But he delights in her soft huff of laughter and the way she burrows further into his side and his flannel, so he notes to question her on it later when they have a moment of privacy.

The kiss she gave him in front of the airport as well.

She claims it was for the benefit of her mother waiting in the queue, but he felt the softness when she pressed up on her toes and pulled him down to meet her lips. He felt the way her fingers trembled against his forearm and how she sighed out soft and slow before leaning up and kissing him harder. He had hardly kept his bearings as her mouth moved against his, not quite sure if he was still asleep on the plane and it was all just a pleasant dream.

But then she had dropped back to the flats of her feet, fixed his collar and muttered something about their charade – how her mother was most likely watching from the front seat of the pale blue contraption so like Emma’s bug that it made him smile.

A good reason, to be sure. But something about it had pricked at the back of his neck. He’s long been a student of the mannerisms of Emma Swan and the way she looked down at their bags and then back up at him, thick eyelashes brushing her blush-stained cheeks – something about the tentative smile that curled at the corners of her lips – it, well. It bloody well gave him hope.

It could be just like this. Soft kisses and her head burrowed just beneath his chin and her fingers toying with his necklace as she dozes in and out of sleep. It could be this easy.

If only she’d allow it.

“Where do you see yourself in five years, Killian?”

He sighs and pinches lightly at the back of Emma’s neck when her shoulders shake in a barely restrained chuckle.

“Happy,” he answers simply, thinking of the way her laughter sounds on the open water – a takeout container of egg rolls in her lap and his favorite sweatshirt draped over her shoulders.

-/-

There’s a certain sort of magic in seeing all the places from Emma’s stories – the town sign she had run into as a teenager. The light pole in which she punched Jason Dempsey in the face for daring to harass Henry. The convenience store where she had her first bear claw and became helplessly addicted. Mary Margaret tells him the familiar stories with a smile and Emma burrows herself further into his side, grumbling under her breath about lapse in judgment and too old for embarrassing stories. The petulant whine in her tone makes him chuckle, tugging lightly on an errant curl and inquiring after the small coffee shop on the left – if perhaps that is the one that –

“Yes,” Mary Margaret cuts him off excitedly. “That’s where poor August asked her to the prom and she spilled her milkshake all over him.”

“Poor August had wandering hands,” Emma huffs. “And nothing about that spill was accidental.”

He supposes there’s magic in that, too. In the way she folds herself into him and doesn’t reach to punch him stupid when he rubs his knuckles between her shoulder blades, allowing the small measure of comfort instead of pulling away. He glances down at her tangled curls pressed into the creases of his shirt and barely bites back his smile.

Definitely magic, that.  

-/-

“Your tattoos, do they have meaning?”

“Aye, they do. Stories and people and moments in my life that I wish to remember.”

“And are any of those for my daughter?”

He chuckles. “Not quite yet, although it’s well past due. What shall it be, Swan? A tub of ice cream? A slice of pizza? Maybe the little gun you strap to your thigh?”

Emma looks up at him with bleary eyes and a smile. “How about you get _moron_ tattooed on your forehead in honor of me?”

“Ah, Swan,” he ruffles her hair. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re hardly a moron. And there’s certainly no need for you to stare at it every day.”

Mary Margaret does her best to suppress her laugh, but he hears it all the same.

-/-

Her home is exactly as he pictured it.

There’s a wide porch that wraps around the house, littered with a variety of gardening implements and rocking chairs that sink down low and look heavenly after a plane trip cross country and another hour spent cramped in the back seat of a Volvo. The old floorboards creak as he makes his way up the stairs and he smiles when Emma steps in an intricate pattern to keep the wood from sounding beneath her sure steps. He isn’t even sure she notices she’s doing it, probably a long held habit of sneaking in and out of the house as a young girl.

There’s a small set of stick figures carved into the floorboard closest to the door and he tilts his head to get a better look as Mary Margaret fusses with the lock.

“Henry,” Emma explains quietly. “When we were officially adopted, he carved it in there. Said it was good luck for us to actually stay.”

He squeezes the gloved hand folded in his. “The one with the weapon, that must be you.”

She snorts, his quip having its desired effect and chasing away her ghosts, albeit temporarily. “That’s a paint brush, thank you very much. I liked to paint when I was younger.”

“I didn’t know that,” he says, surprised.

“I know you like to think different, but you don’t know everything there is to know about me.”

He ignores the jab, allowing Mary Margaret to usher them both into the house. “I’d like to see it some time,” at her blank look, he continues. “Your work.”

She rolls her eyes and releases his hand, shucking her gloves and tossing them on the cabinet by the door. It’s nice to see her so at ease, to see her in the place in which she was finally given a family. “You act like I’ve got the Mona Lisa hiding in a closet somewhere. It was just some little kid stuff. Meadows, sunsets – “

“She painted a lot of water scenes,” Mary Margaret interjects, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. His mouth waters at the sight and he takes one gratefully. “She always did seem to love the ocean.”

“Is that so?” There’s cinnamon dusting the top of his coffee and his cheeks begin to hurt under the strain of his grin. “I too find comfort in the rise and fall of the tides.”

Mary Margaret gives him a tight grin. “Who doesn’t? I was just saying to David the other day we should go out on the water more often.”

Emma gives her mother a droll look, taking careful, measured sips of her own drink. “You hate the inlet.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You always say – “

Mary Margaret sighs, accepting defeat. “Would either of you like pie?”

It’s hardly a clever diversion, but he takes it, hoping it’ll buy him some leeway later.

“Before dinner, m’lady?” Judging by the twin looks of exasperation he gets, he may be laying it on a bit thick.

“I’m feeling gratuitous, and the chicken has a bit to go yet.”

He has a suspicion it has more to do with Emma continuing to burn a hole in the side of her head than anything else, but Killian acquiesces, finishing his drink with two heavy swallows. It burns on the way down, settling warm in his stomach, cinnamon lingering on his tongue.

“That sounds lovely. Is there somewhere I should put our things? Out of the way?”

Mary Margaret blanches, like she didn’t consider the idea that Emma bringing her boyfriend could potentially mean that the two of them would be sharing a room. Emma turns to him and takes his now-empty mug from his hand.

“My room is at the top of the stairs, first door on the left,” she leans up and kisses him quickly – a light brush of her lips that’s just a peck but makes goosebumps rise on his arms regardless. “Come back down for pie?”

“Aye,” she tastes of cinnamon as well. “As you wish.”

-/-

The paintings in question hang haphazard on the walls of her room. He spots several peaceful scenes of a boat on the water and he chuckles under his breath, struggling with his suitcase before finally kicking it clear across the aged hardwood. Her duffle gets more gentle care as he places it at the edge of the bed, content to let himself look around for a moment before he rejoins Emma and her mother for pie.  

Besides her paintings (which are fluid and beautiful and bright swathes of color across the page) there isn’t much that adorns the walls. No trophies or medals, no signs of extracurricular activities. No posters of boy bands or celebrities that he can tease her about later. It makes him a bit sad, that her room is so starkly decorated, but she has the things that matter. He spies a picture of her and David tucked into the edge of the mirror, one of her and Mary Margaret in a frame by the bed. But the one that catches his attention is one of her and Henry, a party hat lopsided on her head, her smile so brilliant it makes his breath catch.

That much hasn’t changed.

His gaze keeps glancing back to it as he does his best to unpack a bit and hang a shirt or two in an effort to release some of the wrinkles. He wonders how soon this was after their formal adoption, her face free of any tension or worry as a much younger Henry clings to her shoulders. It reminds him of him and Liam as small boys, Killian frequently hanging his own arms around his brother’s neck as they smiled for the second-hand camera their mother bought from the pawn shop down the road. She had saved up weeks for that camera, her laughter loud and bright as the two of them went through ridiculous poses and antics.

He thinks of what happened to that camera after she had passed, and their home full of love and laughter and warmth had darkened considerably. Liam had done his best to keep things the same, but it was difficult financially for the two of them – the nights lonely when Liam was out late putting in another shift at the bar to try and make ends meet. Try and get enough money to send Killian to college.

And then Liam, well – Liam passed and it wasn’t much of a home at all. The place he was raised as a child was sold off at auction and the meager funds it pulled in were used to fund Liam’s funeral. He misses it sometimes – wishes he could return to a place filled with the warmth he had known when his mother was alive. But he can’t. That ship has long since sailed, so to speak, and the only things he has to remember his family are stored in a lock box on the top shelf of his closet back in Portland.  

Seeing Emma have that, though. That makes the ache a little less sharp.

The door to her room suddenly swings open, Emma a whirlwind with her wayward curls and wide green eyes. He takes one look at her and closes the closet door.

“What is it?”

-/-

The worst part is how perfectly the ring fits her finger, how she keeps rubbing her thumb over the band like it brings her comfort, like it means something to her.

Or perhaps the worst part is how much he likes seeing it there – the ring that was once his mother’s – feeling it pressed against his skin when he tangles their fingers together and leads her out of the room.

Or maybe the worst part is her father’s face when they come creaking down the old stairs, his eyes confused and then curious and then downright hostile when they light on Killian – clearly connecting the dots and not liking the picture he’s getting on the page.

But the worst part, he thinks idly as Mary Margaret steers them easily into the kitchen for pie and Henry links arms with Emma, is that this is all a farce. That when they get back to Portland that ring will come off her finger and slip back on his, and they’ll go back to easy banter and nights on his boat and beer shared between friends.  

That’s probably the worst part.

She pauses just inside the door to the kitchen and turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her nose wrinkles as she takes in his expression.

“Hey,” she slips her hand from Henry’s elbow to tug at his instead. “You okay?”

Ever observant, his Swan.

He shakes his head, clearing the cobwebs and rather dark thoughts, and does his best to smile the one he saves just for her. She presses her fingers to the corners of his lips and he allows himself to be swept away in their little game of pretend, if only for a moment.

“I’m fine, love,” David is still looking at him like he’d very much like to switch out the chicken roasting in the oven with Killian’s head. “Shall we have pie?”

“I think what we’d like,” David’s voice is all deep, intimidating bravado and both Emma and Henry snicker as Mary Margaret rolls her eyes. “Is an explanation – “

“The story, rather,” Mary Margaret cuts David off effortlessly. She’s a born politician, this woman, and he’s beginning to see how she won the town election. In a landslide, if he’s to remember Emma correctly.

“An explanation of how my daughter has a ring on her finger when I don’t remember giving my permission.”

“Hello,” Emma sings, all sarcasm as she presses a kiss to the back of Henry’s head and then her father’s. David pats her arm lovingly, but still manages to look like he swallowed a whole lemon. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Chill, Dad,” Henry is already three-quarters through a slice of pie, Mary Margaret slipping another on his plate without even looking. “It’s a miracle Emma even found someone worth putting up with her for the rest of time – “

“Hey!”

“ – so let’s just go with the flow here and see what’s up,” he looks up at Killian, pointing with his fork. “Still kind of pissed you didn’t tell me over xbox though.”

“Alas,” he pulls out Emma’s chair and allows her to sit before taking the piece of pie offered to him. “Telling you the good news while dodging mortar shells seemed a bit inopportune.”

“And just showing up suddenly engaged wasn’t?”

David looks fit to burst, angrily stabbing at his pie as Mary Margaret busies herself with readying dinner behind him. It is a bit of bad form, showing up suddenly betrothed, and he winces as he considers how this all looks. Fake relationship or no, he doesn’t want to make a bad impression on Emma’s parents.  

“Well, I – “

“It was my idea,” Emma supplies quietly. “Killian wanted to ask for permission but I asked him not to.”

“And why is that?”

Emma reaches for Killian’s hand after a moment’s hesitation and twists her fingers through his. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze and she smiles at him over the rim of her mug. “Because we know we’re moving fast,” her cheeks pink and he wants to trace it with the palm of his hand, feel the heat of her skin melting into his. “Because we wanted to be selfish and take some time for ourselves before the inquisition started.”

“There’s no - “

“Dad,” Emma gestures at him hunched over the table, the way his eyes are still glaring daggers at Killian. “Case in point.”

David is silent for a moment, and then mutters something under his breath and directs his attention back to his pie. Mary Margaret pulls the chicken from the oven and the kitchen is immediately filled with the smell of baked oranges and cloves, his stomach giving an appreciative rumble. The tiny bags of peanuts on the plane hardly did the trick.

The fight seems to leave David with the announcement that dinner will be served in just a few moments, and he darts his gaze back up, eyes apologetic.

“I won’t apologize for being protective of you - “

They may not be blood, but he can certainly see how Emma favors her father. Stubborn as a mule, the both of them.

“But I will apologize for not being polite, especially when you’re a grown woman and this is your choice,” Emma’s hand tightens on his and his stomach jumps in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. He wants to be her choice. He wants so badly to be her choice. “It’s good to see you, Killian.”

He extends his hand and Killian releases Emma’s to shake her father’s. There is a bit of male posturing - one very forceful grip and a grasp that lasts just a bit too long - but he manages not to wince, and David nods as he releases his hand. Mary Margaret brings the chicken to the table and clears their pie plates away and Emma sets herself to loading everyone’s dishes with dinner. He takes his with a grateful nod and a smile, once again pleased to see her so at ease. And a little shocked that she does indeed know how wield a fork and knife properly.

“What’s got that smile on your face, Killian?”

“Ah, well,” he scratches at the back of his neck as Mary Margaret takes her place next to her husband, curiosity lighting her brow. “I’m merely surprised that you daughter does indeed know how to properly serve a meal. I’m used to pizza from the oven that is rather hastily torn apart with sheer force.”

Emma gives him a droll look, brandishing the carving knife like a sword. “Cute.”

“Merely an observation, love.”

“Well we’ll see if you get some hastily torn apart pizza the next time we have dinner.”

“By having dinner I am assuming you mean me bringing you something substantial so that you don’t resort to potato chips and nutella as you are prone to do.”

“That was one time.”

“If by one time you mean every other day, then yes. You are correct.”

“Wow,” Henry looks at the two of them with wide eyes, a drumstick held loosely in his left hand. “You two are gross.”

“And you,” she’s blushing again. “Could wait until everyone has their plates before you chow down, buddy.”

Conversation drifts in and out as they enjoy their meal, Emma catching her parents up on the latest in the bailbonds industry as he quietly listens. She tells them the story of the man last month who she tackled into a ditch, her face taking on the same glow of victory as she had that night, a proud smile tugging at David’s lips and a slightly terrified one pulling at Mary Margaret’s.

Despite the initial shock, he’s kind of surprised how easily her family is taking the news that she is engaged. To come home with a surprise boyfriend is one thing, but a surprise fiance? Surely they must have questions.

He gets his answer as seconds are doled out, Mary Margaret’s face the picture of innocence.

“So, how did Killian propose?”

“He, um,” her thumb finds the ring on her finger, twisting it round and round. “He, well he - “

“I took her out on my boat,” he interjects, recognizing the tension in her shoulders. For someone who relies on lying in her professional life, she’s utter rubbish when it comes to her personal. “She’s always asking me to take her out beyond the city lights to where she can see the stars, so I did.”

Mary Margaret smiles. He intentionally ignores Emma’s gaze. “That’s lovely.”

“How did you ask her though?” Henry, not shockingly, has already moved on to the chicken breast left unattended in the center of the table. “I want specifics.”

“Well, she had just stolen my sweatshirt as she always does, the thing far too big on her. And she had her winter hat pulled down low. Her hair kept getting tangled in the wind so I set myself to untwist it as I told her of the stars. She likes the story about Pyxis best, the one of the compass.”

“You mean the one you made up?” Emma is looking at him with an expression he can’t quite decipher, fingers idling with her fork. He smiles and rolls his eyes, this argument a familiar one. He continues, undeterred.

“She looked over her shoulder at me with the glow of the moon upon her face and I just knew I wanted to marry her. So I asked, and she said yes.”

“The glow of the moon,” Henry snorts. “Are you for real?”

He shrugs, used to people poking fun at the way he speaks. It’s true, though. He’s been compelled more than once to say or do something quite stupid while watching Emma beneath the stars, her golden hair spilled out beneath her as she lay on the deck of his ship.

He’s got it bad for her. This he knows.

“The ring, it’s quite unusual.” Mary Margaret reaches for Emma’s hand as she inspects the jewelry.

“It was my mother’s. Uh, left to my brother, actually. But Liam had rather insisted I take it should anything happen to him,” he looks down at his plate and shakes his head, remembering the numerous conversations Liam had with him regarding estates, wills and the like when he joined the service. He had ignored the lot of them, not willing to have the conversation with his brother. “Liam always was too bloody serious and stubborn for his own good.”

Emma’s fingers trail gently down his arm, over his wrist, pressing lightly where his knuckles strain under the force of his grip. He releases his fork with a sigh. Emma gives him a soft smile.

“That sounds familiar.”

He chuckles, and focuses on the curve of her smile instead of the memories of Liam that settle uncomfortable in the crick of his neck. “Aye, I’m afraid I share a good bit of Liam’s worst qualities.”

“The good ones, too.” She taps the back of his hand once and directs her attention back to her mother. “So when are we heading out?”

He’s grateful for the change in topic, even more grateful for the way she shifts in her chair until her feet are pressed up against his beneath the table. It’s taken a long time for him to think of Liam without losing himself in sorrow and drink. And while it still brings it’s own demons, the darkness is easier to push down when Emma lends a hand.

When he looks back up David is no longer looking at him like he wants to drive his steak knife through his forehead. In fact, he looks oddly contemplative, his gaze darting to Emma and then quickly back to him.

He smiles and nods, and it’s quite obvious that the older man has just imparted his approval.

He tries not to feel too elated at that. And when Emma kisses him in the kitchen as they’re all pulling on their jackets, her lips tasting like orange and spice, her breath brushing against his cheek as she mumbles something about her father looking on - he tries not to feel too elated about that as well.

He fails miserably.  

-/-

They spend the evening walking the main street of the quaint little town, Mary Margaret pointing out here and there her plans for the rather lavish festival she is throwing in celebration of her election. She doesn’t set them to work quite yet, but his head is already spinning with their lists of instructions. Henry is already huffing and puffing in exasperation but Mary Margaret mentions something about pie and all is forgiven.

According to the itinerary, he and Emma are to rise with the sun in the morning and head to the blueberry farm. When he not-so-quietly suggests the grocery store they passed on their way into town, Mary Margaret succinctly explains that these pies need to be special. A real mayor bakes from scratch, after all.

“Just don’t suggest apple,” Emma whispers into his ear as they stroll back to the car, her arm hooked through his. “She has this weird thing with apple pie.”

“I do not, I just think they’re tired,” a yawn cracks Emma’s jaw and he catches it, eyes watering at the corners. It seems his coffee high has finally worn off, the long day of travel settling in his bones despite the on-flight nap. Mary Margaret gives them both a kind smile. “As are you two. We should get you home.”

Emma rests her chin against his shoulder. “I would play polite and say I want to hang with you guys some more, but - ” another yawn rolls over her shoulders, eyes squinting closed. “But I’m exhausted. And if you want us berry picking bright and early, we should get some rest.”

He doesn’t hate the idea, already imagining the thick blankets spread out on Emma’s bed, the array of pillows stacked at the head. Emma is dreadful at sharing blankets. He learned that lesson the hard way at a cabin overnight trip down to the coast in the middle of winter with Ruby, Will, and some other people from the bar. Practically froze his feet off, and nearly woke up with a black eye with all her tossing and turning. He’ll have to snag something on the way up to her room to drape over his feet.

She nudges his arm as they climb into David’s beat up pickup truck, his knees practically pressed to his chin with how they’re cramped in the back.

“I’ll ask my mom for a couple extra blankets,” she drops her head to his shoulder with another yawn. Another that he catches. “I know how dramatic you get.”

“I’m hardly dramatic, Swan.”

“Mmhmm, sure.”

She’s asleep withing the first few minutes home, her palm pressed to the inside of his knee.

-/-

David looks as if he has half a mind to scoop Emma from the back seat and carry her up to her bed. He’s not sure the logistics of that one but luckily Emma rouses herself, blonde hair tangled in her face as she squints into the light of the overhead.

She leans on him heavily as they make their way up the stairs, collapsing on the bed face down as soon as they’re in her room. He leaves her to wash his face and change in pajamas, hoping she does the same and he doesn’t have to cuddle up next to leather for the duration of the evening.

Not that there will be any cuddling. It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed and he’s under no illusions that their newly minted relationship status will translate to their default sleeping arrangements.She’s an aggressive sleeper at best and he’ll be lucky to survive the night with a sliver of bed and one of the extra blankets to himself.

She’s in her pajamas when he returns - an old pair of his sweatpants and a college t-shirt so faded the logo is no longer visible on the threadbare heather. She’s curls on her side when he quietly clicks the door shut behind him, palm patting the empty space next to her in invitation.

“Come on, Romeo,” she slurs, smile wavering around another yawn. “Take me to bed.”

“Quite the temptation you are, love,” he laughs, sliding in next to her. Her body heat has already warmed the sheets and he sighs gratefully, tossing one of the extra blankets over his feet, the other within easy reach next to the bed. She’s watching him with sleepy, smiling eyes - a blanket tucked just beneath her chin - and when he lays back against the pillows, her feet press under his leg.

“You’re the first boy in this bed, you know.”

His eyebrows raise and he flips on his side, her feet adjusting with the move until they’re pressed between his. They’re warm, so he allows it. “I assure you darling, I am no boy.”

When she does nothing more than give him a less-than-amused look, he continues. “What? Wandering-hands-August didn’t ever see the floral wallpaper?”

She shakes her head and he softens, something about the way her breath keeps brushing against his throat with every soft exhale and the creaks and groans of the old house around them. It’s comfort and warmth and more of a home than he’s had since he was six years old and trying on a top hat that was far too big just to make his mother laugh. “Well, I’m honored, love. Truly.”

She sighs and closes her eyes, nuzzling further into her pillow. If he were to extend his pinky, he’d be able to brush the apple of her cheek. Follow the line of it to the tip of her ear. Let his fingers thread through her hair until he loses himself in her.

It’s a good thought. Certainly an easy one to drift off to.

He closes his eyes.

“Thank you, Killian. For everything.”

He smiles. “My pleasure, love.”

-/-

He wakes with a flick to his forehead.

He groans and rolls until he’s face down in the bed, the room still far too dark for them to be up. He gets another flick to his ear and he swats vaguely in the direction the attack is coming from, his fingers just barely brushing soft fleece.

Emma sighs. “You have to get up. We need to go berry picking.”

He groans again. Louder this time. “Leave me here to die, Swan.”

Her nails scratch gently at the nape of his neck and he peers open one eye to look up at her blearily. Her face is tight and her eyes look a million miles away. Even in his half aware state he can see the distance she’s trying to create between them, feel the tremor in the soothing gesture of her hand against his skin. He expected it, honestly. With that freeness of her affection yesterday, he knew there would be a cost.

One step forward, ten steps back. As is always the case with Emma.

It’s a good thing he’s a patient man.

“Get up,” she sighs, lips tilted down, hand finally pulling away. He watches as it closes into a fist at her side, feet shuffling back and forth in obvious discomfort.

“Alright,” he grumbles. “I’ll shower and meet you downstairs?”

The shower does little to wake him. In fact, with the warmth of the water and the honey smell of Emma’s shampoo lingering from her own shower earlier, he finds his mind wandering. Blonde hair plastered against wet skin, droplets of water cascading down a pale throat. Perfect, round breasts and long, long legs. He sighs and rubs the palm of his hand roughly over his face while he nudges the water a bit colder. That’s a dangerous path for his thoughts to travel and while he’s been there before - many, many, _many_ times before - now is not the time.

He does, however, use her shampoo.

He’s more of a human when he meets her downstairs in the kitchen, but barely. Eyes squinting at the light that is just starting to break through the kitchen window, feet shuffling as he does his best not to collapse into a heap on the floor. He is not a morning person, not by any stretch of the imagination. Emma hands him a mug and he grunts something that must pass as gratitude because she gives him a tight smile, hands working on pulling her hair back.

“I woke you a bit early so we could grab some breakfast first.”

He tugs on her pony tail lightly. “You’re an angel, love.”

She smiles, this time genuine, and he counts it as a victory. “We’ll see how you feel about that when you taste the bacon at this place.”

The bacon, as it turns out, is terrible. The company, however, much more favorable. Especially when whatever seemed to be weighing heavily on Emma’s mind disappears around her fourth bite of pancake and the face he pulls as soon as the bacon touches his tongue.

He spits it out as gracefully as he can in a napkin while she smirks.

“Told you so.”

“Aye, so you did.”

She drops her chin into her palm, smirk blossoming into a grin. “Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?”

“That’s typically my line.”

“Well, I just - “ Her words catch abruptly in her throat, her eyes darting over his shoulder with a faintly panicked look. Her hand immediately reaches for his, her grip crushing.

“What are you - “

“Emma?”

He doesn’t recognize the voice and before he can even turn in his seat or inquire as to what has her so started, a man joins them at their table. Thin, tall, a mess of brown hair - he slides right into Emma’s side of the booth without sparing him a glance. He kisses her cheek and Emma stiffens, his hand the one to crush hers this time.

“It’s good to see you, Emma.”

“Yeah, um,” Emma looks to Killian. “This is Walsh,” she explains needlessly. Killian had an idea as soon as the man inserted himself into her space. “Walsh, this is Killian.”

Killian releases his death grip on her hand to extend his. He smiles, wide and menacing. It’s the same look he gives to the group of underage kids led by that little shit Peter who frequently try to steal beer from Granny’s bar. Emma says it’s creepy. He damn well hopes so.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Emma’s fiancé.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

**Chapter 6**

She spends a long time looking at the scar on his cheek. 

More specifically, she spends a long time ignoring his hand wrapped around her waist and her knee pressed between his - and instead focuses on the scar on his cheek. 

She’s not inclined to move, not just yet. 

The first time they shared a bed was not long after they first met, Killian resolutely laying with his arms crossed over his chest, his body held stiff and tight away from hers. He had been so serious then, so unwilling to bend from his good form. But she had shown up at his door in the middle of the night while her roommate engaged in some rather concerning positions if the noises were any indication and he had let her in with a sleepy smile and anchor pajama pants, his hair sticking up every which way. 

He shifts in his sleep and mumbles something under his breath, his nose brushing the hem of her sleeve while his fingers flex against her back. He’s grown decidedly less serious since then, she muses quietly, ignoring the itching in her fingers that wants to push his hair back from his forehead. This is  _ not _ part of the plan - allowing him to be like this when they’re not actively pretending - but she just - 

She doesn’t want to move. 

Not just yet. 

It’s incredibly easy being with Killian like this. Like  _ this _ sleeping all tangled together and like  _ this _ \- holding hands and brushing kisses and smiling at each other over coffee mugs in front of her family. Too easy, really, and it makes all the suppressed feelings of the past ten years that much harder to bear. But this is what she wanted, right? To be with him but not  _ be _ with him. To have her cake and eat it too, as Ruby would say. Probably with a smack to the back of her head. 

But what she really wants is to have him still by her side at the end of this. She doesn't want to muck it up with unrequited feelings and a desire for him to slide the hand against the small of her back just a bit lower, press his fingertips beneath the hem of her sleep pants until skin presses against skin. 

She sighs and his eyebrows furrow in response like he’s programmed to note her distress, even in sleep. She smiles fondly despite herself and rubs her thumb along the inside of his wrist. She’s starting to give herself a headache with all the things she does and doesn’t and might and might not want. 

He blinks blearily at her, narrow slits of blue barely visible in the dark. “S’early,” he mutters. “Go back to sleep.” 

She presses her toes against his ankle. “You go back to sleep.” 

He sighs, bone-weary and exhausted, already half-unconscious, his hand drawing nonsense patterns against the small of her back. “Always so bloody stubborn.”

His soft snores press against her collarbone as he shifts further against her and she reaches over him carefully to set the alarm on her phone. He won’t remember this conversation in the morning. Probably won’t even wake up with the alarm. When he sleeps, he sleeps like the dead, and the only thing able to wake him is the smell of chocolate chip pancakes being burnt on his stove or a well-placed flick to the forehead. 

She traces the shell of his ear, allowing herself the small weakness. They’re pointed at the tips, and she remembers nights out at the bar in college - when she made fun of his elf ears until they flushed pink. 

He won’t remember the pad of her thumb tracing over his ear to his neck, brushing carefully in the hollow beneath down to his jaw when he wakes in the morning, but she will. 

She supposes that’s the problem. 

-/-

It’s worse when she wakes up. 

He’s all flushed cheeks and ridiculously messy hair, face pressed into the pillow and arms tucked beneath. He looks comfortable here in her space, folded against her side and making little hiccuping breaths every other exhale. It presses down on her chest, every moment spent next to him like this, until she’s frowning at the ceiling and digging her fingernails into her arms to keep her thoughts from spinning madly out of control. 

Killian usually helps with that. Presses his palms into her shoulders until her breathing evens out and she has control of herself again. Makes a quip or a comment or alleviates the tension with the smile that only pulls at one half of his mouth, the other side rushing to catch up until the dimples flash in his cheeks. 

It’s a mess. 

She’s a mess. 

He makes an aborted sound beneath his breath when she slides carefully from the bed, his whole body turning and crowding the space she just vacated, arm slipping beneath her pillow and dragging it to his face. He groans and grumbles and kicks with his legs until he’s asleep once more, shoulders relaxing from their hunched position. 

It’s kind of the most adorable thing she’s ever seen and it makes her frown that much harder, practically scowling at the baseboards as she shuffles to the bathroom. 

All in all, it was a shitty decision on her part. To do this - to force herself through this sort of torture. Because she always knew they would be great together - that things would be as easy as the way he smiles at her half asleep and how he presses his thumb to the small of her back when guiding her out the door. It’s easy and she knew it would be and that’s why this was a terrible decision. 

It doesn’t help that every time Killian kisses her, he sways against her and with her - like her kissing him has thrown him out of his orbit and into hers. 

It’s certainly what  _ she  _ feels like. 

“Shit,” she turns the water extra hot, hoping to maybe burn these thoughts right out of her head. It’s barely day two and she’s losing the iron grip she’s been white-knuckled clutching for close to ten years. The little box marked  _ Obnoxious and Overwhelming Feelings For Killian Jones  _ she keeps a lid firmly on in the back of her mind is starting to shake like that crazy book from Harry Potter, snapping angrily and trying to wrestle itself free. 

_ God _ , she really needs a coffee. 

She feels better once she’s blasted the hair dryer on her face until her nose begins to prickle with heat, better still when she manages a cup of coffee with the cinnamon creamer her mom keeps special in the fridge. She finally musters enough willpower to march back to the front lines and try to wake him, only to bang her head lightly against the old oak of her door when she finds him sprawled, extra blanket curled around his shoulders like a royal coverlet, his legs tangled in her sheets. 

Sleepy, disoriented men with insane bed hair are her weakness. 

She’s going to need another coffee. Preferably with the whiskey hiding under the second floorboard to her left, a stalwart keepsake from her teenage rebellion years. 

-/-

Her sour mood dissipates as she watches him order a plate of bacon at the diner despite her warnings, the challenge of it all doing more to wake him up than the two cups of coffee she practically forced down his throat before they left the house. He grins at her as they chat aimlessly about their plans for the day, bickering over where the best berries can be found on the bush. 

(“I’ll have you know, Swan. I am quite apt at locating the perfect berry in a bush.” 

“Are you now?” 

“I know just where to press to elicit the sweetest berry of them all.” 

“You’re so gross.”) 

She even forgets for a moment what they’re actually doing here. The overall plan, not the fact that they’re  having breakfast in a sleepy diner with an owner who is still yawning behind the counter top. It feels like every other morning she’s had for the past ten years, with Killian ordering the one thing she told him not to and carefully stealing bites of hers like she doesn't notice. 

She’s abruptly reminded, though, when the bell above the door chimes and a familiar lanky body ducks in. 

He spots her immediately, because of course he does, and comes bounding over, sliding right into her space and pressing his lips to her cheek. She feels...nothing when he does it, except for the searing pain in her right hand where Killian is grinding her bones to dust with his grip. 

“It’s good to see you, Emma.” Walsh breathes and she wants him to slide right back out of the booth, walk out the door, and never speak to her again. It’s not that he’s a bad guy, he’s just a persistent guy. A persistent guy who apparently has been campaigning her  _ mother _ for another shot. 

One he is not going to get. 

“Yeah, um,” she looks to Killian, trying to extricate her hand before he dislocates a finger. “This is Walsh. Walsh, this is Killian.”

Walsh’s face clouds over when he finally notices Killian, extending his hand after a moment’s hesitation. Killian - well, Killian looks like Christmas just came early. 

She sighs. 

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Emma’s  fiancé .”

Walsh’s eye twitches. If she weren’t sitting so close, she wouldn’t have noticed it. As it were, Walsh decided to leave no space between them when he crashed their booth, and she has an up close view of his disdain. “ fiancé , huh. That seems quick.” 

Killian shrugs, smile tight - the  _ fuck you _ smile he gives to the assholes at the bar who talk down to him and spill beer all over his just-cleaned counter top. “Well, when you know it’s right, you know it’s right.” 

She didn’t expect this. She thought they would come here, avoid Walsh altogether, and convince her mother that there was no matchmaking necessary. She didn’t consider what could possibly happen if the two of them met, not giving it more than a brush over in the back of her mind. She had a good snicker imagining Killian in Walsh’s too-crowded furniture store with the wood shavings on the floor and the unkempt filing system in the back, but then she moved on. 

Considering Killian’s tendency to rise to a challenge when handed to him on a god-damned silver platter, not a good move. 

(And  _ that _ is a habit just as much as Killian ordering the wrong breakfast and claiming hers as his own - this  _ comparing _ every man she dates to Killian. Going on a date and wondering what Killian might think of them - if they would get along and have a beer or if Killian would sit silently in the corner, judging the man for sipping on a Budweiser.) 

“When was the last time I saw you?” Walsh drums his fingers on the tabletop, elbow brushing hers. “Fourth of July? You didn’t mention anything at dinner about seeing someone.” 

She didn’t mention anything  _ after _ either and judging by the way the silence lingers after Walsh’s statement and his raised eyebrows, he’s thinking along the same lines. It curls in her stomach, making her smile far too forced. 

“We started seeing each other when I got home,” she stammers, ignoring the way Killian’s smile falters and his eyes get that contemplative look - the same one when she’s lying about not needing medicine and he force feeds her ibuprofin for her bum ankle anyway. “I didn’t say anything because - “ 

She hesitates. She didn’t say anything because at the time, there was nothing to say. She gave in and went out with Walsh because she was tired - tired of her mother’s incessant nagging and tired of her own voices in the back of her head - and she didn’t call him again because the night she spent with him was a stark reminder at how  _ bad _ she is at all of this. 

She soldiers on. “I didn’t say anything because nothing was for sure yet and I didn’t want to give you false information.” 

God, she sounds like one of her god damned sources.  _ False information.  _ What even. 

Walsh runs his finger back and forth over the salt shaker. “Wouldn’t want that,” he hums, gaze darting between her and Killian, eyes narrowed. Killian stares back steadily and her fingers crawl back across the tabletop before she can stop herself, grasping for his. He squeezes gently and she relaxes, sigh whispered between her lips. 

Walsh notices, sighing himself. “I’ll let you two get back to it. I can only assume you’re here so early because Mary Margaret has granted you a task,” he stands, idling by the table. “I know how much Emma hates mornings.” 

Her skin flushes hot, taking the dig for what it is. “Good to see you, Walsh.” 

He nods, ignoring Killian completely. “You as well, Emma.” 

She watches him pick up his to-go coffee before stepping out through the door, bells above his head tinkling merrily. Killian spears another piece of pancake off her plate. 

“He seems nice. I can most certainly see why you joined him for dinner,” one eyebrow raises as she darts her gaze back to his, the sarcasm thick in his voice. “I do have one clarification though.” 

She swallows against the knot in her throat, wondering if her hot chocolate would make it better or worse. Telling Killian partial-truths has never been a habit of hers, but she can’t quite convince herself to tell him that she did more than just have dinner with Walsh. She doesn't know why, and she’s not willing to examine it further. 

“Yes?” 

“How is it that we’re berry picking in November?” His cheeks puffed as they are with her breakfast, his hand still in hers, conversation successfully diverted from all things Walsh - the knot easily dissipates on its own. Not for the last time, she’s grateful he can read her so easily. 

(Not for the last time, she’s grateful there are times when he  _ doesn’t _ read her so easily.) 

She smiles, elbowing her plate over to him. She’s lost her appetite, and it’s easier than him getting syrup all over the table between them. 

“I know a guy.” 

-/-

“You said you knew a guy, Swan,” Killian eyes the greenhouse warily, the hulking figure barely contained by the frame of the door holding his attention. “Not a bloody giant.” 

Their breath puffs in front of them in little white clouds and she’s glad they’re spending their morning in a greenhouse and not out in the fields. The chill is already seeping beneath her leather,  making it hard for her to bend her fingers. She can’t imagine what a couple hours crouched in the dirt and reaching for berries without heat would grant her. 

“Anton is harmless,” she rubs her hand up and down the outside of his arm, noticing the shiver that rolls over his shoulders. His eyes are still heavy with sleep and he yawns every other step, bumping shoulders with her when he loses his footing on a particularly stubborn tree root. Considering she wants to make it out of this trip alive, it’s definitely a good thing the two of them aren’t meandering about in the fields. “In high school, the kids called him ‘Tiny’.” 

“Makes perfect sense,” Killian grumbles. Then, after a pause, blue eyes alight with curiosity - “What did the kids call you?”

“Loner, mostly. Weirdo or freak if they were feeling particularly brutal,” she shrugs when his eyes get sad, the wounds high school kids inflict upon one another no longer holding the same bite. “Don’t look at me like that, it didn’t bother me.” 

“Especially not after you punched young Jason Dempsey in the mouth, I’d wager.” 

She grins, a little bit surprised that he’s remembered the story she told him long ago with her back against the deck of his ship and his fingers sifting through her hair. 

“They called her Psycho after that one,” Anton is suddenly in front of them, suspiciously quiet in his approach for a man of his size. He smiles warmly down at Emma and she presses up on her toes to wrap her arms as best she can around his shoulders, her laughter loud when he picks her up and squeezes tight. 

“Hey, that  _ psycho _ got Jack and James to leave you alone sophomore year.” 

Anton chuckles as he places her carefully back down. “Right you are. It’s good to see you, Emma.” While she did her best in high school to stay out of the way of the other kids, Anton was the exception. Constantly picked on for his size, she finally had enough and stepped up, putting that  _ psycho _ nickname to good use. Even Mary Margaret couldn’t be upset with her after she explained the situation. Anton peers over her shoulder at Killian. “Now, do I need to intimidate this guy,” he points at Killian. “Or is he a friendly?” 

“He’s a friendly, for the most part.” 

“He’s also standing right here and can hear everything you say,” Killian supplies from his place just over her shoulder.  

“He seems like a smart ass,” Anton winks at her, then holds out his hand to Killian. It’s night and day from their exchange with Walsh, and she chuckles when Killian winces against Anton’s grip. “You seem like a smart ass,” Anton tells Killian. 

“He is.” 

“I am.” 

“A perfect fit for Emma, then.” 

Emma punches Anton in the shoulder as he begins to lead them to the greenhouse.It seems she doesn't even need to try and convince Anton that her and Killian are together. She wonders if the word has spread that quickly (Uncle Leroy has been known to scream things down the street), or if he assumed it when they climbed out of the car together. 

She doesn't know which is better. 

He shows them to the blueberry bushes in the far right corner as soon as they enter the greenhouse, the humidity pressing down on her as they carefully pick their way through rows of herbs, vegetables and assorted greenery. The blueberry bushes had been an insistence from her mother, apparently, and Anton had considered it a favor repaid. 

“Shouldn't I be the one reaping those benefits?” She takes the basket handed to her, side eyeing Killian as he scopes out the blueberry bushes with something akin to childish delight. He’s already got a neat handful in the bottom of his basket, fingertips stained with blue. 

“All in the family,” Anton throws over his shoulder, making his way back to the front. “I’ve got some stalks to check on out in the fields. Lock up when you go?” 

“Sure.” 

They work in silence side by side, the rustling of the branches as they catch on her coat the only sound between them. He hums a nameless tune under his breath as he ducks around the end of the aisle, disappearing behind thick branches of green. His boots scuffle every couple steps and the coziness of it all allows her mind to wander. The warmth of the small greenhouse, the way the sun filters in through the thick, fogged over glass. She used to come here with Henry when they first moved, too afraid to touch the delicate petals of the lilacs near the front, worried she would make them crumble. 

“So fighting the good fight has always been in your blood, yes?” Killian appears suddenly at her elbow, reaching into her bucket and plucking a blueberry. “You helped Anton,” he supplies in response to her silent question. 

“Oh, that was -” she slaps his hand away from her bucket when his fingers go wandering again. It’s no surprise that he has substantially less berries than she does. He probably got distracted by his own reflection in the windows.  “That was a one time thing. It gave me an excuse to put some jerks in their place.” 

“Early allusions to your bondswork, perhaps.” 

She hums, tipping her bucket into his. “Maybe.” 

They have more than enough berries for the pies Mary Margaret wants to make, even if Killian does decide to keep sampling the stock. She smiles when he reaches back into the bucket without thinking, eyebrows pulled down low. 

“You’re thinking about making a beer, aren’t you?” 

He blinks. “How many packs of vacuum sealed berry bags do you think we can fit in our carry on?” She rolls her eyes and hopes he’s kidding but knows from experience he’s probably not. She has a nearly torn in half duffle bag somewhere in her apartment from his desire to own all the honey in Portland to prove it. “Do you think - ah, wait a tic, Swan.” 

He tugs on her elbow, bringing her around until her boots are pressed neatly between his, urging the bucket from her fingers and placing it just next to them. Holding her steady with his palm against her cheek, he tilts her chin up with his thumb beneath. His cold hands are a shock to her system, her body attempting to pull away from him even as he shushes her and brings her closer.  

It’s warm in the tiny greenhouse, warmer still with him standing so close. She feels it in her cheeks and sees it in the tips of his pink ears, lingering this close to him. She can see the spot just on the underside of his jaw that he missed when shaving, the red in his beard glowing amber in the morning light. 

“You have a bit of - “ his free hand swipes at the corner of her mouth and she licks her lips as his thumb drags down, working at her skin in firm circles to remove whatever stubborn bit of berry is clinging to her skin. Her hands find his hips to steady herself and he breathes in deep through his nose, eyes darting up from his thumb lingering on the dent in her chin to hold her gaze. 

His blue eyes look brighter here, like this, standing in a too-quiet greenhouse on the edge of town with her fingers in his belt loops. 

(She’ll have to ask Anton if these bushes are laced with pesticides, because Killian breathes out again and she feels a weight in her arms and in the base of her spine, tugging her closer and making her heart pound too loud in her ears.)

“There,” he whispers, and her hands flex against him. “Good as new.” 

She doesn't move from his hold, his palm sliding until his fingers tangle lightly in her messy bun, just behind her ear. It’s what he does when he’s about to kiss her, she’s started to notice, and it’s that idle thought that has her backing away from him, holding the bucket close to her chest.  

“Thank you.” 

Kissing in a greenhouse with no one else around goes against every careful rule she’s written herself for this charade she’s placed them in, and unlike allowing herself to fall back asleep pressed against his chest, it’s not one she can easily write off later. 

When she looks back up, he’s inspecting one of the blueberry bushes with a critical eye, and she feels stupid for thinking he might kiss her. What he feels towards her is strictly platonic, and she’s seeing the things she wants to see. He’s here because he’s her friend - her  _ best _ friend - and she asked for his help. 

It’s the heat in this tiny greenhouse - or something. 

“Do you think you could extend that family favor and get Anton to ship me one of these?” 

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think you can send a bush through the mail, Killian.” 

One eyebrow jumps up with a wicked smirk. “I beg to differ, Swan. I’ll have you know - “ 

She’s quick to turn on her heel to hide her smile. “Shut up.” 

-/-

He dozes in the passenger seat on the way back to her parent’s house, arms crossed over his chest and forehead pressed against the window, his breath fogging the glass on every exhale. He isn’t used to spending his days being a productive member of society, often not waking until around two to head into the bar. It’s why she got him blackout curtains for Christmas after all, tired of his constant bitching regarding the amount of light in his apartment. 

(“Well maybe you shouldn't have picked the place with the floor to ceiling windows.” 

Sleep rumpled and blinking at her heavily, he watched as she stood on his dining room table to hang the drapes over the largest of the windows. 

“But look at the view, darling,” smile hidden behind his coffee mug, she had practically felt his gaze linger on her exposed shoulder, down to the small of her back where her shirt had ridden up. ”A man can hardly resist.”) 

Her dad is on the roof when they pull into the driveway, not the best sign especially when Henry lobs a flashlight at him from down in the yard. David catches it easily, peering down the chimney with obvious hesitance. 

“That seems troublesome.” 

Killian’s accent is rougher with sleep, the edges to his words sharper. She frowns and kills the ignition, grabbing their bucket of berries from it’s place nestled in the backseat. 

“Probably a raccoon in the fireplace.” 

He looks at her in surprise. “Does that sort of thing happen often?” 

A smile twitches at the corners of her lips as she leans closer, mouth just below his ear. “I heard something in the closet last night, could be a whole family of them.” 

He doesn't look amused when she throws her head back and laughs. 

“Low hanging fruit, Swan.” 

She swings the basket back and forth in front of his face. “Good thing we had practice.” 

Henry greets them at the stairs, bundled in several layers. She thumbs at the striped scarf around his neck that he got when he first got to their group home, frayed at the edges with use. His eyes hold hers with a soft smile and she knows he’s remembering, too. 

They’ve come a long way from the scraggly kids they used to be. 

“The heat kicked the bucket. Dad is up checking the chimney to make sure we can use the fireplace.” 

Killian nods sagely. “Raccoons.” 

“What?” Henry reaches in and snags a handful of berries, tossing them in his mouth. It’s like the kid never stops eating, she swears. “Is that a thing in England? Raccoons in chimneys?” 

Emma rolls her eyes with a snicker, pulling the basket out of reach and handing it off to Killian. “Take this in to my mom, I’m going to check and see if my dad needs help. You’re then relieved of your duties for the time being.” 

Henry and Killian look at each other, mirrored grins fixed firmly in place. 

“Call of Duty?” 

“It’s about time I taught you a thing or two in person, lad.” 

Their trash talk fades as they head through the front door and she climbs up the ladder propped against the front of the house, making her way across the roof to where her dad is still peering down the chimney. 

“Need to make sure it’s clear,” he explains needlessly. When her and Henry first came home with the Nolans, David had taken special care to explain anything and everything he was doing. He wanted them to feel included. He wanted them to feel valued. For Emma, he wanted to assure her that she was finally somewhere she could  _ stay _ . 

It seems old habits die hard. 

It makes her smile. 

She rocks back on her heels, nodding. “I told Killian you were looking for raccoons.” 

David chuckles, clicking off his flashlight and slipping it into his back pocket in a practiced maneuver that speaks to years on the job as town Sheriff. “Did he buy it?” 

She grins.

-/-

There’s a cacophony of mortar shell explosions and high-power machine gun fire when she swings through the front door, immediately ducking into the kitchen to spare herself the brunt of it. There’s a definite chill in the air from the lack of a functioning heater, but the ovens going in the kitchen make up for it - the fireplace able to kick in later. Mary Margaret smiles at her over the bucket of berries, that damned dwarf dish towel clutched in her hand. 

“Did you lose your dad?” 

“I think he voluntarily enlisted,” she slides onto a stool. “Noble hero that he is.” 

“That he is,” Mary Margaret smiles and Emma idly wonders if she will ever get sick of how much her parents love each other. While they have their moments where they border on gag-worthy, it’s comforting to see a couple so in tune with one another. It gives her hope for her own future, that she’s not so far gone that it’s outside the realm of possibility. “How was Anton?” 

“Large,” she replies. “Kind, as usual. Hey, I don't appreciate you cashing in my favors, by the way.” 

“You can have the first slice of pie, if that makes you feel better.” 

“I’m sure you already promised that to Henry, so the point is moot,” she watches Mary Margaret’s hands gently clean the berries, setting them to the side to dry on a stack of paper towels. She debates mentioning Walsh, but she’s chasing a hunch and her gut is rarely wrong. “We ran into Walsh at breakfast.” 

“Oh?” 

Her mom’s face stays carefully neutral, not even an eyebrow twitching out of place. She narrows her eyes. 

“I knew it.” 

Mary Margaret puts the berries down. “Now, Emma - ” 

“You told him we were having breakfast there.” 

“It’s the only place in town to get coffee that early. I couldn’t possibly - “ 

“But you could  _ possibly _ ,” she stresses the word. “Mention that you sent us on an errand at the crack of dawn.” She crosses her arms over her chest defensively - frustration at Walsh, her mother, and herself combining into the perfect storm of hostility. Apparently it’s going to take more than a fake engagement to get her mom off her back regarding Walsh. 

Mary Margaret at least has the courtesy to look contrite, mouth pulled tight. 

“I merely mentioned you were back in town for the festival and I would be sending you out to the farm for supplies,” he shrugs. “I’m sure he put the rest together himself, that you would be at the diner that early.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you assumed I would invite him along, didn’t you?” 

The slightly guilty look on her mother’s face is all the answer she needs. Mary Margaret has always been kind of the worst at telling lies. It’s how she knew she was getting the bug for high school graduation, and how she found out that they were even being adopted in the first place. Mary Margaret has a tendency to just...blurt things out. 

She slides off the stool. “I’m going to see what the guys are up to.” 

“Emma - “ 

“No, just - “ she sighs, shaking her head, thumb rubbing along the cold metal on her ring finger. She knows Mary Margaret means well, that she just wants her to find her own happy ending. But it doesn’t sit right with her. 

None of this does. 

“Lights tonight in the square?” 

Mary Margaret nods. “We’re going to wait until it gets dark so we can see how it looks all done up.” 

Emma forces a smile. “Sounds great.” 

“Emma, honey -” 

“Sounds great, Mom.” 

-/-

Killian, for his part, doesn't say anything about the downturn of her mood. He just laces their fingers together on the couch and presses a kiss to the side of her head when she joins them, handing off his remote to David and instructing Henry (bickering) on how to best capture their enemies flag. 

They spend the afternoon just like that, huddled together on the couch, Mary Margaret appearing with sandwiches and apologetic eyes that Emma does her best to avoid. 

It isn’t until they’re suiting up to head to Main Street that Killian brings it up. 

“Alright, love?” He tugs her cap down over her ears, carefully pushing strands of wayward hair away from her face. 

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’m alright.” 

“Anything I can assist with?” 

And maybe it’s because she’s tired of fighting it so much or maybe it’s because she’s still fanning the flame of rebellion, but she grips his coat collar in her hands and tugs him down so his nose brushes hers. Her dad is standing just behind him, and it’s as good excuse as any. 

“Kiss me?” she whispers, hating the thinly masked need in her voice. Being in this house makes her feel sixteen again, in more ways that one. 

He doesn't answer her with his words, instead pressing his fingers to that spot just behind her ear that he favors. His eyes search hers for several silent moments and when he leans down to press his lips to hers, it feels different.It feels  _ more  _ and she finally ( _ finally _ ) lets herself fall into it without the constant mantra of  _ pretend, pretend, pretend  _ looping in the back of her mind. He keeps it soft and careful and sweet and when he pulls back, he lingers in her space, nose dragging along her cheekbone. 

“Who am I to deny a beautiful woman?” 

“You two are so gross,” Henry wedges himself between them in his effort to get to the door, forcing them apart. She gives Killian a small grin in response, but he just blinks at her, his cheeks pink. 

She blames it on the cold settling over the house, and it’s as good excuse as any. 

-/-

Whatever hesitations she had earlier in the day regarding her (fake) relationship with Killian quickly evaporate over the course of the evening. With her hand in his, they set themselves to twining twinkle lights around the light poles up and down Main Street, getting themselves tangled more than once. She laughs loud when he curses at the  _ bloody things, demonic fairy lights to be sure _ and takes the tangled batch from his hands, working it free quickly and efficiently, him glaring at her the whole time.

“I loosened it for you,” he mutters. 

“Mm hmm.” 

It’s the lightest she’s felt since she woke up the morning after her dream where she was stuck on his boat without him. Apparently there’s something to be said for just going with it. 

She knows she’ll pay for it later - that the voices in her head will come back ten-fold - but she can’t really stop herself from giving in when he slips his heavy flannel coat from around his shoulders to drape around hers, working her arms through it and zipping it up carefully. 

“Leather is hardly appropriate for late fall, darling,” his breath is white and his coat smells like his body wash, wintergreen and sweet. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I let you freeze?” 

She pulls the sleeves over her hands, smiling. “ Fiancé.” 

“Aye,” his answering grin is just as wide. “Fiancé.” 

Henry’s voice is far away - but not lacking in volume - when he yells from his perch atop a street bench. 

“Still gross!” 

-/-

_ All _ hesitation disappears by the time they make it back to the house, her bedroom so cold they can both see their breath in the air between them. The space heater her dad gave her just isn’t cutting it and she’s  _ cold _ . 

She folds herself into his arms as soon as he’s done tucking the surplus of blankets around them both, shivering as he rubs his hands up and down her back. 

“I promise not to steal the blankets tonight,” she presses into his chest, nose digging into his collarbone. 

The ancient space heater sputters in the quiet of her room, a mechanical clanking as it does it’s best to churn out heat. 

“I would make a quip about creating some heat of our own, but even I’m too cold for that,” he gives a violent shiver against her, his sock covered feet kicking back and forth beneath their blankets. “Are you alright, Swan? Earlier, you seemed - “ 

He lets his sentence drift off and she balances her chin on his chest to peer up at him. She can barely make out the angles of his face in the dark, but she can feel the way his fingers press a bit harder at her skin through the material of his sweatshirt, how his strokes become more calming and intent. 

It’s the good part of being with someone - the soft, silent comfort - without the heartache of potentially messing things up. Of things ending. 

(Of her never seeing him again after she inevitably fucks it up.)

(It’s the only way -  _ this pretend  _ \- it’s the only way she can ever have something like this with Killian. All the wondering, all the - Ruby calls it  _ yearning _ \- all of it. She can have her week of make-believe and they can go back to what they were. He can stay in her life and she can look back on this and remember the way his arms feel wrapped around her, lips pressed to her forehead, when she really needs it.

It’s the  _ only _ way.

She can’t - she  _ won’t _ \- try it for real.) 

( “ _ It would have happened if it was supposed to, and it hasn’t, so this is what we are. This is what it is _ .”)

She burrows further into him, her face in his neck. 

“I’m okay.” 

She’s kind of perfect, actually.    
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He’s not going to press his advantage.

It’s not the gentlemanly thing to do, and he won’t have Emma under duress. If she makes the decision to be with him outside this farce they’ve constructed, he wants it to be her own.

He doesn’t want it to be because the heater in her parent’s home had a rather violent end to what he’s come to understand was a long and dignified life.

(“It sort of - exploded.” 

“It’s an old house. To be expected, I’m sure.”

Three sets of eyes staring back at him until Henry -

“What even  _ happens _ in England?”

Apparently exploding heaters are  _ not _ to be expected.)

He also doesn’t want it to be because of her mother, and whatever she said to Emma in the kitchen that had her bothered. He had caught the way Mary Margaret was desperately trying to lure Emma into eye contact, and it would take a fool of a man not to notice the way Emma curled in on herself throughout the afternoon - the furrow in her brow growing deeper as the sun progressively dipped lower.

(It would take a fool of a man not to notice the way Walsh had clearly tried to goad him with the comment about Emma in the morning - an immature dig if he ever saw one. It had made Emma pause, though, a wince flitting across her face before she bid Walsh a frosty farewell and, well - it’s not like he needed more reason to hate the man but he’s quite content to add it to the list.)

(He thought about asking her if there was any truth to the statement. If her dinner had in fact been more. But Emma has never been one to hide things from him and letting Walsh under his skin regarding a relationship that isn’t even real probably qualifies as bad form.)

When he asked what she needed as they stood bundled in the foyer, he had meant it. He’d bloody well cross to the end of the world and back if it meant it removed that haunted look from her gaze. What he hadn't expected was for her to ask for a kiss. For her voice to go soft and her fingers to curl around his elbows, tugging him closer into her space as her chin tilted up.

What he hadn’t expected was the soft noise made under her breath to settle low in his stomach, his fingers clenching tight in the hair just behind her ear.

He feels the shift in her - her smile bright in the glow of the infuriating twinkle lights her mother has them twining around every available surface in the center of town. He feels the change in the air between them but he’s not - he’s not going to press his advantage.

Not even when she’s curled against his front in her tiny childhood bed, her breath warm against the hollow of his throat.

Not even when she finally relaxes into sleep with his arms tight around her, his lips brushing back and forth against her forehead.

Not even when his shivering subsides to the warmth between them, her fingers tangled tight in the material of his sweatshirt.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters as she shifts further into him, the honey vanilla smell of her shampoo wrapping around him.

All in all, not a bad way to go.

-/-

He dreams of the greenhouse, of her lips soft beneath his and tasting of blueberries. He dreams that his thumb lingers in the dent in her chin as he presses her back into the little wooden shelf, their bucket tumbling to the ground between them when her fingers abandon it for the collar of his shirt. He uses his thumb on her chin as an anchor, gently guiding her mouth open wider against his own, the low hum beneath his skin growing to a dull roar when she gasps out his name on a shaky exhale. When his hips press tight to hers and the branches from the bushes scratch at his arms. When his tongue curls around hers in a wet slide of heat that has him pressing his hips against hers tighter, the edge of the cedar shelf no doubt digging into the small of her back.

She’s stunning with the morning light in her hair and lips stained blue, swollen from his kiss as her tongue traces over it. Captivating when her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and a smile curls at the corners of her lips. The edges around her are soft and her skin glows unnaturally in the light - the odd sensation of knowing you’re in a dream but not giving a flying twit about it. 

She leans back from him but doesn’t go far, her cheeks pink and eyes shining.

“You wanted to do that, didn’t you?”

He smiles, giving in and nudging her nose with his own. “You didn’t truly think me that enamored with a blueberry bush, did you, love? Certainly not with you so close?”

“No,” she smiles, and the tender understanding in her eyes makes everything blur and then snap back into focus, the meadow behind her through the fogged up windows tilting on it’s axis. He tilts as well, wishing so badly it could be this easy in their waking moments. She cups his jaw with her hand, her skin cold against his own. “No, I didn’t.”

He wakes with a start, the room still dark, the air still cold around them.

But where Emma is pressed against him, he is unbearably warm. She mutters something under her breath about fairy lights and he chuckles, the racing in his heart calming. The images of his dream are already slipping through his fingertips, nothing but the taste of blueberry lingering on his tongue. After counting her breaths and doing his best to match his breathing with hers, he soon forgets why he’s awake at all. 

Though his last fleeting thought before sleep claims him again is perhaps blueberry beer isn’t such a bad idea afterall. 

-/-

He wakes to her still in his arms, her hair a tangled halo against the pillow. He fiddles with it, twisting the strands around his fingers and watching the way it slips against his rings. He had half a mind to think she would already be gone when he woke, her avoidance of him as she lets herself give in to his comfort a tried and true pattern. She had avoided him for nearly a month back in university when his nose had brushed hers during a particularly boozy night at the bar, their heads bent low together and her breath sweet against his chin. She had avoided him for two weeks when she told him of her troubled past - of bouncing from foster home to foster home and the chasm it created in her chest.

But she’s still here, and his stomach flips a bit at the indication.

Perhaps - perhaps she’s starting to see just how wonderful they could be together.

A particularly stubborn curl snags on the ruby ring he wears on his index finger, and she makes a disgruntled noise beneath her breath.

“You’re pulling,” she mutters, swatting at his hand. “Stop it.” 

“I’m merely untangling the disaster that is your hair.”

She squints open one eye to look at him. “I would ask if you’re always this charming first thing in the morning, but I already know that answer.”

“Aye, so you do.” He grins and she huffs, burrowing herself further against him. The air of her bedroom is still biting cold, the stiff wind that whips at the windows not helping matters. He smoothes his palm over the back of her head, careful to make sure his rings don’t catch this time.

“Why is it still so cold?” She whines somewhere in the depths of his sweatshirt, her fingers slipping up the sleeves to press against his forearms after she drags his arms back between them. He jumps at the touch of cold, and she snickers into cotton.

“I would assume November has something to do with it.”

When she makes no move to respond with violence, he decides perhaps he should play nice. No need to poke the sleeping giant and all that.

“Shall I fetch you some hot chocolate from the kitchen?”

She tilts her chin against his chest until all he can see is the green of her eyes, squinting up at him from beneath the blankets that are pulled to her ears. She’s painfully adorable in the moment, and he has no doubt she  _ would  _ resort to violence if he were to impart his thoughts.

“With cinnamon and whipped cream?”

He scoffs, mentally bracing himself for the cold. It’s so pleasantly warm beneath the covers with her body pressed to his, he’s loathe to leave it.

But he did make the suggestion.

“You act as if I’ve never made you a hot chocolate before.”

“You have, it’s just - “

He stops from where he’d been working to disentangle himself from the sheets and her limbs, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“It’s just, what?” Her lips twitch at the corners and he frowns. “Swan, have I not been making you adequate hot chocolate throughout the years?”

“You just - you forgot the cinnamon once and I - “

“It was one time, woman.” One time when she had whipped off her shirt immediately upon entering his apartment, ranting and raving about the prick who had elbowed her into the trash depository on the end of the park, mustard and  _ god knows what _ staining her favorite stake out shirt. She had been clad in nothing but her sports bra - breasts pushed up and full - and he had forgot the cinnamon. She’s damn well lucky he managed to heat up the milk and pour it into the mug at all, especially when he returned to his living room to find her shrugged into one of his flannel button ups. “Shall I never be free of my sins?”

She nudges him out of bed with her foot, clearly ignoring the way his whole body seems to cave in on itself when the frigid air of the house wraps around him. She pulls the blanket tight under her chin.

“You’ll be free when you bring me a hot chocolate,” she yawns and closes her eyes. “With cinnamon.”

-/-

He’s just pouring the steamed milk over the cocoa powder when a voice startles him.

“Wow, you’re whipped.”

Henry slides onto a stool at the breakfast bar, smug grin on his face, knit cap pulled low over his ears and hands rubbing against the outside of his arms. For the lack of familial blood between them, him and Emma share an alarming amount of mannerisms.

Killian shrugs, his hand steady as he stirs the chocolate in. “I don’t consider doing kind things for the people you care about whipped, as you so eloquently put it. Plus, as I’m sure you’ll find out later in life, a man who gives to his woman - “ he continues to stir while poking his tongue at the inside of his cheek. “ - is a man who receives from his woman.”

Henry makes a face that looks as if he’s just swallowed an entire lemon. “That’s - disgusting.”

Killian chuckles and places the spoon in the sink. He’ll let the hot chocolate cool for a moment before adding the whipped cream, knowing Emma doesn’t like it when the sugary white confection melts too fast.

“Not how I meant it, though I’m sure the point is the same.” At Henry’s deepening frown, he rolls his eyes. “I was just trying to say that I’d do just about anything for you sister, if only to see her smile.”

Make hot chocolate in the freezing house. Stuff protein bars in her glove compartment to make sure she consumes actual, valuable sustenance.

Pretend to be her fiance.

“You really mean that don’t you?”

He turns fully to meet Henry’s suddenly serious stare, chin balanced in his palm as he coolly assesses Killian.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “I do.”

“That’s good,” Henry answers after another tense beat of silence, eyes narrowing in silent contemplation. “Because Emma hasn’t had many people in her life that do that.”

“She has you,” Killian supplies, smiling slightly when a proud grin tugs at the corners of Henry’s mouth. “She has your mother and your father.”

“Yeah, and now she has you, too.”

Killian nods, doing his best not to let his smile falter. He tries to reason with himself that Henry wasn’t referring to their engagement specifically - that their bond runs just a deep without a ring on her finger for real. But it itches beneath his skin - that Emma has him but doesn’t want him. That she sees the implication of all that they can be and she still - she still chooses to hold herself back.

But that’s what his agreeing to this trip was for, after all. To show her that they could have more, and still be everything they were.

He reaches for the whipped cream with renewed determination, using a bit too much force as it sprays half into the mug and half into his hand.

“Aye, me as well.”

-/-

Halfway back up the stairs with the mug of hot chocolate in hand, he turns and retreats back to the kitchen. Henry is still sitting at the kitchen counter, but he’s managed to scrounge up some of the baked goods covered in foil on the far end, a fork held above the pie tin as he watches Killian place the mug down carefully.

(It has dancing dwarves on it and he noticed them placed strategically throughout the house - in the form of a dish rag hanging over the edge of the stove, in a series of vases stacked on the mantle above the fireplace. He makes sure to take extra care when placing it down. He doesn’t want to destroy some sort of family heirloom.)

“You forgot the cinnamon, didn’t you?”

Killian glares into the cabinet, reaching for the silver can near the top. “No.”

He ignores Henry’s best imitation of a whip as he heads back up the stairs.

-/-

Emma is smiling at him, bleary eyed and beautiful, when he enters the room.

“You forgot the cinnamon, didn’t you?”

He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, an exasperated sigh whispered through his clenched teeth. “How did you know?”

“Henry’s voice carries,” she mutters, reaching out from beneath her blanket burrito and extending her hand. At his slightly alarmed look, she smirks. “Don’t worry, I didn’t hear your battle strategy about your stupid zombie duty - “

“Call of Duty, for god’s sake, love.”

“ - or whatever. I just heard him say something about cinnamon after you clomped back down the stairs. I put the pieces together.”

He slides back into bed next to her, sighing at the immediate warmth and the way her feet lock around his ankle. She sits up slightly and tosses the extra blankets over his lap, curling her palm around the steaming mug and taking a gentle lick at the whipped cream on top, smiling serenely.

It takes everything in him not to lean forward and taste the whipped cream on her tongue - the bit clinging to the corner of her lips.

“I don’t clomp.”

“Uh, you definitely clomp. I’m surprised you didn’t wake up the whole house.”

He’s relieved by the turn in conversation, even more relieved that she didn’t hear a majority of his discussion with Henry. It’s nothing she doesn’t know - how much he values his place in her life - but she has a tendency to get skittish when her past is brought up. What’s worse - defensive and haunted when the people who have left her behind are alluded to.

And what they have right now - her pressed into his side as she sips at her hot chocolate, humming under her breath with every odd sip and extending her mug out to him - it’s good.

He curls his fingers around the mug, skin lingering against her own. He’s delighted to see a blush light her cheeks, lip caught between her teeth.

“You have a bit of, uh - “

She taps at her own nose in silent explanation and he chuckles, going crosseyed and sticking out his tongue to try and gather the whipped cream left on his nose. He’s reminded of their afternoon in the greenhouse, and his almost painfully transparent excuse to touch her.

“It seems we both have a tendency to be messy eaters. Or rather drinkers, in this case.”

She smiles at him like she knows a secret he doesn’t and he idly wonders if she knows more about that errant swipe of blueberry and his thumb working against her chin then she lets on. He can still feel the soft fullness of her bottom lip against the pad of his thumb - remember the way her breath had backed up in her lungs as he crowded her space.

“Just don’t get whipped cream all over my bed.”

She realizes her words almost immediately, rolling her eyes and groaning as he lets out a hearty laugh.

“Shut up.”

“I said nothing.”

“Yeah, but you wanted to.”

“Not a thought crossed my mind.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“I’ll have you know, Swan,” he leans forward until the remnants of whipped cream on his nose brush against her cheek in a haphazard line. “I’m always quite careful with my cream.”

She looks unamused when he pulls back, the blush still lingering on her cheeks, her palm swiping at the sticky confection he left against her skin. Instead of wiping it on his sweatshirt as he anticipated, she - god help him - she licks at it with the flat of her tongue. A broad stripe that has him biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his groan.

She’s teasing him. On purpose.

Some might even say flirting.

Faltering for something to say that doesn't give away the tension pulling low in his abdomen, he coughs, feeling like a sodding fool for having indecent thoughts about her while in her childhood bedroom. But it’s far from the first time this has happened, and he’s sure it’s far from the last.

(Not to mention this is another step in the progression she showed last night. Something else that shows she might - she might actually  _ want _ him. Want this.)

(He wants to watch as she drags her tongue along the line of his neck, down over his collarbone, to the lines of ink that drag over his chest. He wants to watch her nip with her teeth and pull - leaving marks next to his scars and tattoos. Pink and indented with her teeth as she struggles to hold herself back.)

“So,” he does his damndest to move the conversation to safer waters, giving in and rolling his eyes when she smirks at him. “What’s on the docket for today, love?”

Her eyes brighten, the haze of (what he hopes to be) desire dissipating in her excitement. He can’t help but mirror her grin, her obvious joy infectious.

“We’re going to set up your Kissing Booth.”

His head snaps up from where it had been resting comfortably against her backboard, a sharp crack protesting the abrupt movement. He narrows his eyes are the smug expression tilting her lips - the arch of her eyebrow like she’s just daring him to say something about it.

“You’re kidding.”

-/-

He’s relieved to discover that she was in fact kidding about the kissing booth.

He hates that he had to figure it out by bringing it up casually in conversation with her parents - tripping over his words like an adolescent about his hesitance to do something so - painfully unhygienic.

Emma and Henry had immediately dissolved into a fit of giggles and he had glared daggers at the back of her head. 

Instead she has them stringing more of the infernal lights - this time from rooftop to rooftop in the center square in an intricate criss cross pattern that Mary Margaret actually laid out on a diagram. His copy of which he lost within the first ten minutes balanced on the edge of the rooftop.

“You know I’m kind of surprised that you’re doing that without gloves,” Emma offers from her place propped against the stairwell door, grilled cheese covered in foil fit neatly between her mittened hands. “Considering how unhygenic it is.”

“I have half a mind to fling that sandwich from the roof in retribution,” he mutters, dropping the tangled strands of lights and  _ clomping _ his way over to her. She holds the grilled cheese protectively against her chest, but it doesn’t deter him. “In fact - “

She laughs loud when he cages her in with his arms, beard brushing against her cheek when he leans forward and takes a vicious bite out of her sandwich. There’s cheese hanging from his mouth and he’s sure he looks a sight, but her face is an appropriate combination of horrified and amused, her green eyes sparkling up at him as he does his best not to choke on the sandwich.

A hard feat, that, when her cheeks are flushed just so and she snorts a laugh through her nose.

“I hope you choke on that,” she whispers when he doesn’t move from her space, chewing obnoxiously loud and glaring at her. The fingers not around her sandwich curl around his wrist pressed against cold brick and his eyes narrow. There’s no one here to see them, no one here for them to play pretend for, and it makes his heart flip foolishly with hope. She holds up what’s left of her mangled sandwich and smiles sweetly. “Would you like the rest?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he pushes himself off the wall, not liking how much it makes his head spin to be so close to her. Or rather, he likes it too much. “I daresay I would.”

She hands it over without complaint and he takes another careful bite without looking away from her.

“After all,” her serene smile turns into a wide grin. “Wouldn’t want you to be unhygenic.”

He throws the little ball of foil at her head.

-/-

She pulls another sandwich out of her satchel, and  _ bloody hell _ -

“Swan, you aren’t playing fair.”

She shrugs, unwrapping the foil from around what is clearly a BLT. The mouth watering scent of bacon hits his nose on a breeze clearly sent from hell and he pulls overly hard on one of the strands, no doubt tightening it beyond repair. She knows how he feels about bacon.

She  _ knows. _

“Maybe if you hadn’t been such a barbarian, you would have received your favorite sandwich.”

“Wench,” he mutters under his breath and she chuckles.

After a beat of silence that’s filled with the infuriating sound of his hands furthering the mess of lights and the crunch of crisp ( _ god _ ) bacon - an indecent groan from her that makes him think terrible,  _ terrible _ things - she sing-songs across the rooftop to him -

“It has avocado.”

\- and that’s it. He throws the lights down for the second time that evening and storms over to her, his hands on her hips guiding her back until she’s nestled against the wall once more, her boots tucked neatly between his. He reaches forward with his mouth as his hands are otherwise occupied with holding her firm as she squirms against him. And it’s a bloody cluster fuck of a situation, her arm angling up as he leans forward, and he doesn’t mean it, he  _ really _ doesn’t mean it, but his mouth -

Well, his mouth lands right on her neck.

His teeth even bite down a little bit, intent on the sandwich she’s still holding aloft like a shining trophy - a beacon of his torment, if you will.

But this. This is a whole other sort of torment.

She lets out a breathy sound, her thigh nudging his.

Infinitely worse.

His bottom lip drags against her skin as they both freeze, the tip of his tongue grazing her skin like he just can’t help himself. It would be comical, the way they sort of stop all movement immediately, if he didn’t feel like he were fit to burst by his mouth between her shoulder and neck. He aches to taste her skin - aches to bite down harder and see if she makes that cross between a sigh and a moan again.

Aches to kiss her for real, with everything he has, with no one else watching.

Instead he leans back from her, an apology on his tongue because it would be just his luck to fall into a compromising position with her. Just when - just when she seems to be coming around to the idea of him and them and all the things they could be if she just -

“Wait.”

Her hands tighten over his biceps, keeping him where he is, lingering in her space with his nose still buried in her hair. It’s a touch better than his mouth on her, but just as disarming.

Just as distracting.

“Emma?”

He leans back to see her eyes  because he needs to see her eyes - see what she could possibly be thinking. The sandwich in her hand drops to the ground between them and he would be more concerned about the bacon if she wasn’t licking at her bottom lip, glancing between his eyes and his mouth, her fingers clenching and unclenching against his jacket.

“I - “

“Emma? Killian?” She jumps as if the voice is right between them instead of on the street down below, a smile smile quirking her lips as she releases his arms. “Are you guys up there?”

He allows her to slip out from between him and the wall, her boot steps sure as she walks over to the edge.

Him? He’s not so sure. 

The only thing he’s sure of is the whispered  _ wait _ between them.

Sure he’ll wait as long as it takes.

-/-

Emma leaves him to go down to the street and oversee where the tents will be placed, her voice carrying up to him every now and then from down below. He curses the timing of it, feeling as if they were on the precipice of - something. Henry comes to assist him with the lights briefly -

(“You know for a self-proclaimed sailor, you’re pretty terrible at the whole knot thing.”

“I’m adept at making knots, lad. Not undoing them.”)

\- before abandoning him to other ventures as well. The lights are strung according to what he remembers from the document Mary Margaret handed him, and he idles his time after, sitting with his feet hanging over the edge of the roof. His mind wanders from his conversation with Henry early in the morning, to thoughts of Emma and the way she had looked at him with her back pressed against the brick, to Will and whether or not he’s managed to burn down the brewery in his absence. He’s just about to gather himself and seek out Emma when he hears her laugh - a sharp bark of it that has him glancing for her golden hair among the people milling about on the streets.

He spots her by the edge of a folded up tent, her arms crossed over her chest, talking to -  _ bloody hell _ \- talking to Walsh.

She looks uncomfortable, from what he can see, and he’s just preparing himself to vault himself right off the roof to her side when her shoulders suddenly relax and a smile blooms across her face. She steps closer into Walsh’s space and his hand comes to cup her elbow and he can’t look anymore, his stomach dropping to his toes. That comment of Walsh’s in the diner niggles at the back of his mind and he turns off the ledge before he sees anymore, before he can be haunted by Emma smiling for another man.

A man she has no interest in pursuing something with, if she is to be believed.

But is that why he’s here? To buffer her mother’s unwanted critique of her love life? Or perhaps he’s read this whole situation completely wrong. He was the one to suggest their farce, after all. He was the one who suggested he come with her and pretend.

Perhaps Emma wished him to accompany her purely to make Walsh jealous.

The thought twists his gut.

(But he saw the way she looked at him when curled against him in her bed, the way she looked at him just now with her hair tangled beneath her knit cap and her hands curled around his arms. He could feel her pulse beneath his mouth and the way it sped up - how her breath hitched. She feels something for him. He knows it.)

He’s still frowning when he pushes out the door on the ground floor of the small diner they had breakfast in previously, the smell of roast and caramelized carrots tickling his nose. His stomach gives an appreciative rumble, a reminder that all he’s had to eat today is sips of her hot chocolate and a grilled cheese bitten out of her hand.

But that line of thought certainly doesn’t help his souring mood and he does his best to squash it, fixing a smile on his face as he slips out the door and into the brisk evening air. He makes his way to where he spotted her last, hoping Walsh has already made himself scarce and he doesn't have to hear if her voice changes with him - if her fingertips graze  _ his _ chest in the same way they do his.

He thought himself cured of this long ago - the surge of possessiveness that tugs at him every time he sees Emma with someone else. But it seems something has changed for him as well.

“You alright?”

Walsh is blissfully nowhere to be found when he sidles up to her side, hands deep in his pockets. Apparently he wasn’t doing as good a job at faking his good cheer as he presumed, shaking his head and grinning tight.

“Aye, love. Fine.”

She gives him a skeptical glance, reaching for his hand and tugging until it’s about her shoulders.

“They’re about to turn on the lights,” she nuzzles a bit into his arm and he feels himself relax, the tip of her nose pink from the cold. “Time to see your handiwork.”

“It’ll be nothing short of perfect, I’m sure.”

She snorts. “It’ll be a miracle if the whole town doesn’t explode.”

It’s impossible to maintain his foul mood when hers is so light, especially after their shared moment on the roof. Impossible when she’s in his arms and her hair keeps getting stuck in his beard, her arm pulling him tighter into her side.

“Hey, engineering degree, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

There’s a dramatic countdown led by Emma’s mother, but it’s botched when at  _ three _ Uncle Leroy trips the switch and the town is bathed in light. The strands he was responsible for hang perfectly, not a single bulb out of place.

Her hand slips into his, squeezing tight.

“Okay, maybe it’s perfect.”

-/-

She laughs at his jokes during dinner with her family - curls next to him in the booth and sneaks the onion rings he ordered for her off his plate. He pretends to care, but judging by the smirk on Henry’s lips, Emma is the only one who is fooled.

When they get back to her parent’s house, she slumps her way to her bedroom while he helps her father unload the truck, various boxes loaded into the garage and a number of space heaters donated by town patrons being shepherded in the house. He’s given two for their bedroom upstairs and he tucks them carefully up his arms, making sure his footsteps are light in case Emma is already asleep.

She’s curled beneath the blankets, nothing but a riot of blonde against the pillow visible.

“Come to bed,” she mutters. “It’s cold.”

“Your father gave me more space heaters,” he answers, shucking his jacket and plugging in the largest of the two, settling it on the windowsill so the heat hits her directly.

“Just need you,” she slurs. He stills, peering down at her immobile form. She certainly didn’t mean the words as he takes them, but he lets himself do a little of his own pretending, hating the part of himself that craves to hear the words in another matter entirely. She sighs and shuffles further beneath the blankets.  “You’re like my own personal space heater.”

And suddenly he doesn't care the reasoning for why he’s here. Jealousy or buffer, it doesn’t matter. He gets this - Emma soft and half-asleep, arm outstretched over his pillow, quietly asking him to join her in bed. He gets shared hot chocolate and grilled cheese snatched from her hand, her laughter pressed against his throat when he falls into her and she doesn't press him away.

He gets time spent with her family, with her, showing her that this can work.  _ They _ can work.

He gets to show her that he can - he can be something.

He can be better - for her. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8  
**

“Wait.”

She’s wondered, sometimes, what it might feel like to have his mouth on her neck. For him to kiss her without restraint, lips dragging from hers down to the line of her throat, down where her collar bone just barely peeks out from beneath her jacket. Not those careful brushes he’s been giving her all week where his hands are sure to stay in respectable positions and his lips only linger for half an exhale before he’s pulling back. That’s not - it’s just - his kisses are great, wonderful even, but it’s not real. It’s not really him kissing her and - well, she’s thought about it.

She’s thought about what it might feel like if he’s kissed her. Specifically on her neck.

She remembers sophomore year when he came back from summer vacation with tanned forearms and a strip of red down the line of his nose, his hair just a bit too long in the back and curling at his neck. He wasn’t wearing his glasses when he found her down in the laundry room - didn’t wear them to the bar either - and maybe it was how long they spent apart and all the hazy, hot summer nights spent thinking about him and wondering what he was up to an ocean away - but, he looked good. Really good.

(So good she felt herself hesitate when Neal curled his hand over her knee, fingers sliding up to toy with the hem of the ratty shorts she always wore when doing laundry. But Neal made her feel special and Neal made her feel not so alone when her best friend was so very far away - and she chased it. Followed him all the way down a road of bad judgment and even worse choices.)

They had danced that night and the burn of tequila buzzing just beneath her skin had her wondering about him. Wondering if she pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat, if she would be able to taste the ocean. If she tucked her thumbs into the hem of his shorts and tugged just a bit, if there would be a line left behind from the sun. Pale against dark in a deep swoop across his hip bones - maybe dipping further if he wore the shorts that never tied quite right and had a tendency to slip down low.

(She found herself wondering how her skin would look splayed against his, her pale forearm cast across his stomach - her fingers digging into his biceps and her knees hugging his hips tight. She found herself wondering how that would look. If her skin would glow or if she would just steal some of the sun that lingered in his.)

But he was hesitant around her and she - she belonged with Neal. Another one of those signs that there wasn’t _supposed_ to be anything more between them. Bad timing, the wrong moment, an opportunity not taken - it always happened that way.

And even back then, she knew how important he was to her. Even then she was unwilling to give him up - risk it all for just a chance at more.

But still, sometimes she found herself wondering. Late night study sessions in the library when the light was low and his hair was sticking up every which way, glasses slipping down his nose and a tired yawn splintering over his shoulders. She wondered if he would taste like the coffee that sat cold at his elbow - or maybe like the sweedish fish he kept stealing from the small pile she kept across from her notebook.

The first time they got drunk over a beer he made - and his smile was so wide and his eyes so bright - tipping over in the armchair he had claimed as his own in her tiny apartment. It had been so long since she had seen him smile like that - Liam and Milah and ghosts nipping at his heels. He had been struggling, she knew, but - but this smile. The one that tipped the left side of his mouth just a bit higher, dimples flashing in his cheeks, both hands reaching for her when he tumbled from the chair. She wondered if she would be able to taste the happiness on his tongue, or if it would just be hops and barley.

She wanted him to kiss her in the greenhouse. She wanted him to duck down and press his lips to hers as the humidity curled the hair slipping out of her bun, berry juice staining his bottom lip blue and his fingers tangled in the place just behind her ear.   

She wants him to kiss her now. On this rooftop where they’re supposed to be stringing lights, the discarded BLT on the ground between them and his body so close. With his flannel clad arms on either side of her head, her hands curled against his biceps and his nose in her hair. It’s becoming harder and harder to remember all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

“Wait,” she whispers, and she feels him exhale against her.

“Emma?”

Not _Swan_. Not _darling_ or _love_.

Emma.

She wants him to kiss her.

“I -”

“Emma? Killian?”

Unsure herself what she intended to say (afraid, more like, of what she intended to say), she’s relieved by the interruption from the street. It dissipates whatever moment they found themselves in and she slips from his arms with a small smile as an apology, hoping to brush it all off as getting lost in the heat of a battle - the battle over a BLT. Stupid as that sounds, she knows he won’t press her, and she’s grateful for that.

She wouldn’t know what to say if he did.

Because despite her growing desire to be close to him, to drag her teeth along his jaw and feel the scratch of his beard against her skin, nothing has changed. Their relationship is still strictly friendship and she can’t be selfish and ruin it with - feelings she can’t control. Killian is so much more to her than whatever trial and error they might attempt and she can’t lose him. Not after everything.

She’s just not willing to take the chance.

-/-

Why her mother chose her to oversee tent placement and set up is a mystery. It only takes fifteen minutes for Uncle Leroy to go completely rogue, angrily brandishing what’s supposed to be a leg of one of the tents as a weapon against the mild mannered pharmacist who always seems to have a cold. Poor reflection on her leadership skills or perhaps a beer too many, she isn’t sure. All she knows is she’s down one tent constructor to the drunk tank, another to the emergency room for a cut along his forehead.

(Her father had rolled his eyes as he gripped Leroy’s elbow, leading him over to the Sheriff’s station.

“He had it coming.”

“You can’t hit people with a steel piece of frame, Leroy. For god’s sake.”)

And another, it would seem - eyes narrowed as she watches Henry follow Killian back and forth, gesturing wildly with his hands as the tips of Killian’s ears flush that interesting shade of red they always do when he’s biting his tongue against a stream of expletives - to the roof.

She sighs and looks down at the mass of canvas at her feet. Killian would definitely be better at this sort of thing. He’s always had an eye for complicated patterns.

(She thinks of his gaze heavy on her lips, of his teeth grazing the space between shoulder and neck.

He’s always had a knack for complicating things, too.)

“Looks like you could use some help.”

Her hands seize on the heavy tarp of the felled tents, nails catching against the rough material as she tries not to react to Walsh standing far too close in her personal space. She keeps her head down and smooths her palms over weathered white, looking for the pole Leroy had been using as a weapon.

“I’m actually good, thanks.”

He sighs, and she watches as his boots shuffle closer. “Don’t be stubborn, Emma. Let me help.”

“Yeah, no,” her lips pull in a tight smile as she hauls herself back to her feet, shoving her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. “ I’m just fine on my own, thanks.”

There are few things she hates more than being told _what_ or _how_ she’s feeling. Being told she’s angry when she’s decidedly not angry is a surefire way to get her - well, angry.

And stubborn? Same thing.

Killian calls it _setting fire to the gasoline_. She calls it damn irritating.

“That sounds familiar,” Walsh’s look is contemplative, a bit nostalgic, and he smiles at her as he reaches forward and thumbs at the zipper of her coat. It speaks of intimacy they don’t have - never had - and she slips easily out of his grasp, crossing her arms over her chest. He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s pretty familiar, too.”

“You would think you’d get the hint.”

He huffs through his nose, smile slipping into something forced and slightly aggressive. She’s reminded suddenly why she said no so many times, avoiding his charming advances and constant nagging. She’s always sensed something just a bit off about him. Something disingenuous lingering beneath the surface.

Her thing with lies never fails when it comes to scumbags, and there might as well be a neon sign flashing above Walsh’s head.

“And you would think that after our night together, you would - “

“Really, Walsh?” Irritation rises hard and fast, her fingernails digging into her elbows through the thick material of leather. She caved once and gave into her loneliness and he keeps holding it over her head like they carved their names into tree trunks together instead of going on one mediocre date to an italian place with stale garlic bread. “Are we really going to do this?”

“You’ve hardly given me a choice. You’ve been ignoring my calls, Emma. Ignoring me in person, too. And now you bring around some guy and - “

“He’s my fiance,” she corrects. “He isn’t just _some guy_.” Conscious of the people milling around them, she relaxes her stance, fixing her best _fuck you_ smile on her face. She steps closer into his space, mindful that town psychologist and resident gossip monger Archie is inching ever closer, a not so subtle tilt to his head. “And stop acting like we were in a relationship. We went out on one date. I’d hardly consider that boyfriend status.”

“And does your fiance know how I took you home after?” His tone is ugly, jagged edges around the words that cut into her skin. He reaches forward and curls his fingers around her elbow, knuckles brushing up and down gently. “Does he know the sounds you made, all tangled up in my sheets?”

Her cheeks flush red in anger as she jerks out of his grip, his smile widening. “Or maybe he doesn't know at all. Maybe that’s our little secret, hm?”

“What do you want?” She manages. “Because if it’s a repeat performance, I’ve got news for you, buddy - “

“I thought we could have fun together, Emma,” he shrugs his shoulders, suddenly back to the unassuming furniture shop owner instead of - whatever the hell that was. “I can see now that’s not going to happen.”

“Finally,” she mutters.

“You’re hardly worth the effort I’ve extended on you, anyway. The emotional baggage you carry around with you isn’t worth the fuck.”

She blanches, stomach dropping to her toes. The other insults were - well, they were crass and uncomfortable - borderline harassment and manipulation at best.  But the - the implication that she’s not worth the effort - that she’s hardly worth a casual fuck -

She feels it knock around her skull until her teeth clench tight.

“I’ll see you around, Emma,” he starts walking backwards, over to where a stage is being erected by some of the men who work at the furniture store. “Hey! Maybe, ah, what’s his name,” he snaps his fingers. “Killian! Maybe Killian and I will get a chance to talk at the festival.”

She takes the threat for what it is, knowing now that Walsh is way more of an asshole than originally anticipated.

“Wouldn’t count on it.”

He just smiles, touching his fingertips to his temple is a swarmy salute. She fights the urge to flick him off - or take a page out of Leroy’s book and start wielding the tent pole as a weapon. Instead she smiles in response, muttering under her breath about cheaply made end tables and shaggy hair that looks better on an eighth grader.

She has the feeling her unpleasant interaction with Walsh is far from the last time she pays for the one-night mistake born out of her inherent lonely streak and one too many gin and tonics at dinner.

She looks back at the tent at her feet, kicking at a pole and listening to the tin ring against the concrete.

“What I wouldn’t give for my taser.”

-/-

He’s right, though.

She has emotional scar tissue for days and it keeps her - it holds her back from -

It makes her difficult to love.

Neal had said as much with frustrated quips and snide comments, his eventual disappearance without so much as a note a confirmation in capital letters. Bouncing from foster home to foster home should have been indication enough and the Swan’s, when she had been returned after she thought she finally found a home -

She knows she’s difficult to love.

She knows she has trouble telling people how she feels - has trouble staying stationary when things get too serious. She feels freedom in the run, resorting to avoidance if a situation is too difficult to bear. She avoided Killian for three weeks after he started dating Milah, unsure of her place once he started seeing someone. He had eventually cornered her in the third floor of the library, not letting her out of the stacks until she just _talked_ to him.

(“Did I do something? Emma, please.”

“No, it’s not you. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just - “

“You’ve missed movie night three times, love. You’ve been avoiding me in the dormitories. What is it?”)

It’s her. It’s always her.

-/-

Killian finds her just before the lights are set to be revealed, a frown on his face and his shoulders tense. Her own discomfort at her interaction with Walsh falls away in the face of his. She curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs until his arm is over her shoulders, nuzzling into his side until he relaxes.

(She tells herself it’s all for appearance, but maybe it’s a bit for her, too - feeling the way her nerves settle when he shifts his arms and tugs her closer.)

“You alright?”

He blinks down at her, fingers toying with an errant curl of her hair as the frown lines slip from his face. She doesn't like to see him worry. In fact, she likes to see him just like this - pink cheeks from the cold and smiling down at her.

“Aye, love. Fine.”

She huffs in disbelief but leaves it alone. If it’s important enough to tell her, he will. They’re not in the habit of keeping things from one another.

(Except for how she slept with Walsh during their one date. And how she feels when she presses her back to his chest, curled in the warmth of her bed. And the way her throat gets thick every time he looks up at her from beneath his lashes, hair falling over his forehead and sleeves rolled to his elbows.

How this whole _fake engagement_ thing was all because she wanted a chance to be with him but not _be with him_. The perks of a relationship without the responsibility.

You know, besides that.)

It seems Uncle Leroy managed to escape the drunk tank, ruining the countdown by hitting the switch a full two seconds before her mother reaches the conclusion at the mic. She watches her father drop his head back and heft a sigh into the night air, his breath a cloud of white next to her mom. She makes sure to kick the tent pole further beneath the canvas.

No use in tempting fate.

-/-

No use in tempting fate and yet she still curls herself around him when he slips into her bed later that night, tucking her sock covered toes between his legs until the chill that’s settled over her shoulders begins to dissipate. No use in tempting fate and yet -

“Swan? You asleep?”

She groans, shifting her face further into the pillow, maybe kicking back at his shin in retaliation. He chuckles, fingertips massaging at her neck in the darkness.

“It’s rather cold, love, and you’re hogging the space heater.”

“Then you shouldn’t have given it to me.”

“I was hoping we’d share it.”

She tilts her chin back until she can just make out the line of his jaw in the moonlight that filters in through the window. “You thought we would share it, but you put it on my side.”

“Fair point, well made,” she sees the flash of his teeth. “As always, Swan.”

“Alright,” she grumbles, tossing and turning beneath the blankets and probably, maybe kicking him a couple more times in the process. “Come over here.”

“Swan?”

“If you want the space heater so damn bad, come over here.”

There’s a beat of silence with nothing but the rustle of her flannel sheets between them, duvet pulled firmly to her chin. She can feel the heat of his body along the length of her left side, his elbow rubbing against her rib cage every time she shifts.

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

“If you think I’m even considering the idea of unwrapping myself from these blankets - “

“Alright, alright. Easy, love.” Keeping the sheets tucked tight around her shoulders, he drapes his arm overtop her, palm pressing flat into the mattress beside her head until it dips under his weight.

“Lie on your back,” he mutters and she shifts, a low tug in her belly with the way his voice grits along the edges. It’s the way he sounds when he has a particularly good cup of coffee - his first IPA after a long day. It catches and rolls, the quiet demand lingering between them along with the rickety creaking of the ancient space heater. She rolls onto her back and he follows the motion, rising above her on his hands, careful to keep their little cocoon in tact. He moves slowly - intently - one of his hoodie strings dragging across her neck as he slips over her. He presses one knee between hers, then the other, shifting again until he has her caged with his body. She sucks in a sharp breath and she feels his answering exhale against her forehead as he holds himself in her space, his fingers caught in her hair against the pillow.

“Interesting position, this,” he whispers.

“If you say something about liking a woman on her back,” she whispers back just as softly, hands itching to anchor in his hair. “I’m kneeing you.”

He snickers, continuing his shift until he’s wedged between her and the wall, the space heater drifting over them both. His hand finds it’s way to the small of her back, tucking her impossibly closer.

“Noted.”

No use in tempting fate, and yet she just pushes closer until her nose is pressed against the hollow of his throat, her hands beneath his sweatshirt, pressed flat to his chest.

-/-

She wakes to an empty bed, the blankets piled high on her side and the space heater angled just right to brush over the minimal amount of skin that peeks out from beneath. She blinks heavily and groans, rolling further into the pillows and catching a hint of Killian on the pillows. She lingers far longer than she’d ever admit, nose rubbing back and forth against the floral sheets before she braces herself and heaves herself from the mattress.

It’s a slow shuffle out of her room and down the steps, nothing but the smell of bacon and pancake batter driving her forward.

Killian is standing at the stove when she enters the kitchen, hair sticking up on the left side from where his head pressed against the pillow. She doesn't hesitate to shuffle over to him and wrap herself around his back, greedy for the warmth of his body and the warmth of the stove.

“Morning, love,” he pats her hands that rest over his stomach, rings still upstairs on her nightstand. “In a rare show of supplication, you didn’t stir when I climbed from the bed this morning, so I figured it best to let you sleep.”

She presses on her tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder. “And make pancakes?”

“Aye, well. The stove was warm.”

“How industrious of you,” She watches him flip the pancakes with a flick of his wrist, a perfect golden crust appearing as the batter sizzles. “Why does it smell like cinnamon?”

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps I put some in the batter.”

She groans, her stomach echoing in an appreciative rumble. “God, I love you.”

She tenses against him, cursing herself for the slip in phrase. She loves him, of course she does. But she doesn’t - she can’t -

She has trouble articulating what it is he means to her. How she feels about him and how she can’t - can’t even consider a life without him in it.

“I’m just sucking up to your mother,” he quips, either not noting her distress or choosing to ignore it. “Want a good wedding gift, after all.”

“Well consider myself wooed,” her mother’s voice drifts in from the doorway, a pink robe wrapped tight around her small frame. She shuffles over to the coffee maker with a serene smile. “It isn’t often I don’t have to make breakfast.”

Emma snickers under her breath as the tips of Killian’s ears flush pink.

“Apologies. I didn’t mean - “

“Nonsense,” Mary Margaret waves her hand. “And thank you for making breakfast.”

Killian mutters something beneath his breath that sounds vaguely like _you’re welcome_ before handing Emma the plate of pancakes, setting himself to pouring more batter onto the hot griddle. She’s noticed he’s already set out the butter on the table, making sure it’s soft enough to use on the warm pancakes.

She presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“What do you have us doing today?”

“You know,” Mary Margaret slides a mug in front of Emma before sitting herself, hands curled around ceramic. “We hardly ever get to see you. I figured we’d just relax for the day and stick around here. We can get back to baking tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you have a million things - “

“It’s not important,” At her disbelieving look, Mary Margaret chuckles. “Okay, so I might have you assemble some paper lanterns later this afternoon, but I think that’s all we need.” She smiles, eyes bright in excitement. “We’re pretty much set at this point for the festival.”

She reaches across the pancakes and grips her mother’s hand. “It’s going to be great.”

-/-

Her father joins them at the table some time later, Killian working the last of the batter from the large ceramic bowl. It’s cozy like this - the warmth of the stove wrapping around them - her dad blinking at her lazily with a tired smile, his hand wrapped around her mom’s. Killian drops a kiss to the back of her head as he slides the bacon on to the table between them and Henry appears almost instantly, lifting the plate before it hits the table.

“You need to share, lad.”

Two pieces of bacon in his mouth, Henry nods solemnly. “Yeah, okay,” he picks up another piece before setting the plate back down. “Maybe you should make the other pack then.”

David angles his head up. “Do they feed you at college?”

Henry grins, trailing after Killian to the stove. “Not enough.”

Emma frowns at that, remembering what it was like in the group homes. There was never enough to go around, and she frequently lifted microwaveable burritos from the gas station to make sure Henry had something to eat at lunch.

He must sense the direction of her thoughts, smiling gently at her.

“I was joking, Emma. I eat just fine at school.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, you only use one meal swipe for unlimited food and I put tupperware in my backpack.”

Her shoulders relax, her gaze meeting’s Killian’s over Henry’s shoulder when he snorts in amusement. He’s holding the extra pack of bacon in one hand and a spatula in the other, the dwarf dishrag hanging from his hip. He looks at home here, like he just fits - especially when Henry forcibly pushes him out of the way to snag the extra burnt piece of bacon Killian was clearly pilfering for himself.

There’s a scuffle between the two, resulting in Henry in a headlock and bacon grease on the floor - an elbow covered in pancake batter and interesting substitutes for curse words as Killian does his best to restrain himself in front of her parents.

It could be like this always, she thinks idly, and does her best to file that thought away along with what it might be like to kiss him.

-/-

“Killian, there’s - ah - there’s an Everton match on tomorrow morning. I was going to wake up early and watch, if you wanted to join.”

She stares at her father.

“I’m sorry, are you a fan of Everton?”

David’s shoulders straighten, indignation in the arch of his brow. “Maybe I developed some interests while you were off in Portland, Emma.”

“Yeah, or maybe you developed a cru - “

“I’d be delighted,” Killian interrupts easily. He’s scrubbing at their dishes in the sink, his shoulders flexing beneath the cotton of his sweatshirt as he keeps his head down. She notes the way his voice tightens - how he sounds both entertained and touched at the gesture.

She smiles into her coffee mug.

(It could be like this always.)

-/-

“Your father _likes_ me, Swan.”

“I can see that.”

“He’s invited me to watch a match.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, flicking at the tip of his ear. “Yeah, he did.”

He just grins at her.

-/-

They spend the day huddled in the family room, not moving from the big couch in front of the fireplace. Killian discards his sweatshirt sometime before lunch and she steals it, tugging it over her head and leaving the hood up, smelling the spice of his shampoo and bacon grease. He smiles at her softly and tugs at the string once before turning his attention back to whatever him and Henry are enamored with on xbox.

They eat warm grilled cheese and he gives her a secret smile over the edge of his mug, her cheeks blushing hot at the memory of his teeth on her neck. She shifts against his side, his chuckle warming her down to her toes.

Mary Margaret corners her in the kitchen after she’s done clearing the plates, her hand on her arm to stop her from going back to the family room.

“I’m sorry, Emma, for before,” She starts to cut her off but Mary Margaret shakes her head. “No, please. Let me say it. I wasn’t - I wasn’t listening to you. I wasn’t seeing you. You’re so happy, Emma.” Mary Margaret thumbs at her cheek, tracing the slight ache there from the time spent laughing into Killian’s shoulder this morning - smiling at the way her father keeps jumping to impress him with his (limited) knowledge of UK soccer teams. “It’s all I ever wanted, to see you happy. I thought it could be with Walsh, but I was wrong.” She nods. “Killian makes you happy.”

Emma peers over her shoulder back into the living room, Killian spread out against the couch, a space open next to him for her to slide into. His hair is still a ridiculous mess from the morning and with no sweatshirt to cover his arms, she can see the thick lines of ink that band around his forearms. The ship that sits on the inside of his bicep for his brother. The lilies that curl around his elbow for his mother.

“Yeah. Yeah he does.”

Mary Margaret grins, leaning in close.

“Plus your father seems to like him.”

She fiddles with the ring that isn’t hers on her left hand, stomach flipping.

“What’s not to like.”

-/-

What’s not to like about the way he presses his palm to her stomach when she slinks back into the room, tuckering her body into his as she curls up on the couch. What’s not to like about the way he sifts his fingers through her hair, humming under his breath until she finds her eyelids slipping heavy over her eyes.

What’s not to like about the warmth against her toes and the warmth in her chest, his beard brushing against her neck when he kisses her shoulder.

“Sleep, love,” he whispers. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

-/-

She wakes disoriented and groggy, Killian wrapped tight around her and the family room dark. It seems they’ve slept the better part of the afternoon away, a low hum of conversation coming from the kitchen and the fire down to embers - a warm glow of orange lighting the room. She shifts and Killian grumbles against her, something about _dropping anchor_ pressed into her hair.

She smiles. Killian is all smooth charm when conscious - adorable and ruffled as he sleeps.

She slips as best she can out of his grip, her dreams clinging to her like a vapor. She had been on Killian’s boat again, waiting for him to arrive. Only this time a storm had been blowing in from the east, heavy winds pulling her further and further away from the dock. She had called for him, but he hadn’t shown, the fear of abandonment sitting heavy in her gut as she slips off the couch.

It lingers now, and she avoids the kitchen to retreat upstairs, needing a moment to collect her thoughts.

Naturally she finds herself on the roof. The place she used to come when she was young and confused, staring up at the stars in the sky and desperately making wishes. Pleading wishes to stay in this beautiful home and have a family. Aching wishes to be enough for someone, to be kept.

Wishes to have everything.  

(Now she wishes for this to be easy. For them to stay in this bubble where he freely presses kisses to the swell of her cheekbone and she can lace her fingers through his and tug, lips brushing against his knuckles.

For this to be real.

For her to have everything.

For her to have him.)

The window creaks open behind her, but she doesn’t move from her prone position against the shingles, the material scratching at the backs of her arms where Killian’s sweatshirt has ridden up. The wind is cold against her face, biting with every breeze and squeezing her chest tight, but she welcomes it. It helps her settle herself.

Henry stretches out at her side, his foot knocking against hers.

“It’s been a while,” he supplies quietly. “The last time we did this, I - “

“ - was leaving for college, and I thought you were going to forget all about little old me.”

“Yeah, well you’re awfully persistent,” he reaches over until he can cover her hand with his, squeezing once. “Kind of hard to forget about.”

She snorts, her eyes following the path of an airplane above. The weather vane on top of the house creaks in the still night air and she tries to match her breathing to it.

In and out. Nice and steady.

If only her heart would follow along.

“It’s okay to be scared, you know,” Henry squeezes her hand. “I know you’re scared.”

She tilts her head to the side, staring at his profile, trying to keep her voice even. “And how is it that you know that?”

“Because I know you,” he quips easily. “You don’t love easy. And you’re scared of loving Killian as much as you do.”

“I don’t - “

“Yeah,” his thumb taps against her knuckles. “Yeah, you do.”

He shifts on his side then, all gangly legs and awkward elbows. She remembers what he was like when she first met him - so small with a big brown book clutched to his chest, his eyes blown wide and earnest as he muttered over and over about the hope in fairytales.

“Do you remember when I fell at the playground and broke my arm? What you said to me while we were waiting for the school nurse?”

It’s a vague memory, hazy at best, and she furrows her brows as she reaches out and tries to grasp it. “Don’t puke on me?”

Henry laughs. “Well, yeah. Probably. But, also - you told me it was okay to be scared. Because the best things in life are supposed to be scary. And if you aren’t scared, you aren’t doing it right.”

She feels a tear slip from the corner of her eye, her teeth clamping against her bottom lip as she breathes in and out.

Nice and steady.

Urges her heart to match.

“I was probably talking about a lollipop or something, kid.”

She’s never been very good at being brave, not like Henry. Henry’s always just - believed that good things will happen to them. Her? She’s always been a believer in the glass half empty, life teaching her hard and fast that things were rarely fair. She’s shed a lot of that armour since meeting Henry, even more with her parents and then Killian - but she still clings to the things that keep her safe.

To the things that hold her back.

Another tear slips down her cheek, and not for the first time, she wishes so badly that she could just let all the anxiety go. Just give in and - and feel something without fear of the fall.

She tilts her head back and looks up at the stars, wishes for it with all her might.

“He’s not going to let you down, Emma.”

“How do you know that?”

She feels his answering shrug. “I just do.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating jumps up to an M with this one. 
> 
> Hopefully I will be able to get you guys more frequent updates. :) Thank you all for your lovely messages.

**Chapter 9**  

Liam had a somewhat infuriating habit of turning even the most mundane of tasks into life lessons. 

Scrubbing the floors of the kitchen resulted in a twenty-two minute discussion on the merits of hard work, and a particularly stubborn stain by the edge of the stove (chicken grease, perhaps) was symbolic of persistence against even the most unfavorable odds. Persistence being the ache in Killian’s shoulder, the unfavorable odds the aged and weary sponge handed to him to dispose of the stain. 

A selection between fruits at the grocery was a speech on choosing the correct path in life. A night spent at the local pub and the resulting hangover a perfect lead in to the dangers of succumbing to temptation. 

(Bleary eyed and with a headache to beat the band, he had managed to fill his voice with hostile threat. “I am mighty tempted right now to knock you off that pedestal of yours.” 

Liam had merely grinned, dodging the pillow lobbed at his head. “Resist, little brother.”) 

But the one he thinks of now, as Emma slips his sweatshirt over her head, long blonde hair tangled and loose beneath the hood, his fingers tugging on the string until a smile curls the corners of her lips - the lesson he is reminded of now is the one of moments. 

They had been out of the too-small boat the both of them stubbornly referred to as a ship, when a sudden summer storm rolled in from the east. There wasn’t enough time for them to get back to the mainland and within seconds, the lunch spread out on the deck was ruined by a deluge of rain - their clothes soaked through and the cooler of beer tossed overboard with a particularly violent swell of water beneath them. 

He remembers standing there, clinging to the railing for dear life, watching as his brother got that look on his face. 

“Oh bloody hell, don’t even start with the lesson shite as we do our best to not drown, Liam!” 

Liam had merely smiled, elbow hooked about the mast. “There is a lesson in everything, Killian!” 

“Today’s lesson is weigh down the sodding cooler, or we’ll lose all our beer to the depths.” 

“It’s about moments,” Liam had said, with all the distinguished air befitting of a man not hanging on to the mast of a rickety old sailboat. His face had softened, eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile. “I don’t tell you enough, Killian, how I cherish these moments.” 

Rain stinging his eyes, salt heavy on his tongue, feet slipping against the desk of the boat, he had thought his brother mad. 

Liam was taken not a year later.

He remembers standing at the edge of the docks following the small funeral service, hands deep in his pockets as he watched the boats rise and fall. A sudden summer storm had rolled in from the east, and he had smiled as the rain stung his eyes, the salt heavy on his tongue. 

Liam always was the type to have the last laugh. 

He remembers that lesson now as Emma curls into him on the couch, his sweatshirt about her shoulders and the hood brushing against her cheek. Sleep pulls at him as she nestles further into his arms, the fire warm against his front and the couch comforting at his back - _Emma_ \- Emma so very soft against him. 

They’re still a right mess, the two of them. She’s still holding back from him and he’s still chasing her - still _begging_ her - to let him in. But this moment - his hand against her stomach and her legs pressed tight against his. Her body so perfectly held against his own as the flames pop and hiss at the charred logs beneath the mantle. Her breathing and the way it stutters when he brushes a kiss against her cotton covered shoulder. 

This moment is a good one. 

“Sleep, love,” he whispers. “I’ll be here when you wake.” 

-/- 

He never had much of a home. 

His mother did her best to fix them meals whenever she could, but money was tight and working two jobs to support two growing boys didn’t allow time for pancakes in the morning and long, extended lunches about the table. He never had squabbles over bacon or a fireplace to curl in front of. 

He had an apartment that was far too cramped, left alone more often than not while his mother and brother did their damnedest to make sure the three of them had a roof above their heads. And then his mother passed, Liam too, and there was nothing to return to. 

He’s known for quite some time that he’s wanted Emma, but this - this warmth, this home - pot roast in the evenings with potatoes and carrots with rosemary spice on the side - 

\- it’s not something he’s had before. 

He finds himself wanting it desperately. 

He finds himself wanting it with her. 

He sighs and curls himself tighter around her, allows his thumb to slip just under the hem of his sweatshirt until he finds the softness of her skin. She presses herself further into him when his thumb strokes once and he smiles. She’s scared, he knows, but he relishes in the moments like this - when she is soft and allows herself to give into comfort. 

He digs his nose into her neck and breathes in deep, cinnamon and honey, finally giving in to the exhaustion that pulls at his very bones. 

-/- 

“I didn’t realize how many tattoos he has.” 

Emma is no longer pressed against him as he swims back into consciousness, a blanket tucked high around his shoulders, one of his arms fisted in the well-loved material as if he were reaching for her - even in slumber. It’s a challenge to keep his eyes shut as Mary Margaret and David hover over him, to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. 

“He said he doesn’t have any for Emma, but I wonder - “ 

“He better not have any for Emma.” 

“David,” Mary Margaret’s voice is soft and admonishing, and the desire to grin is almost unbearable. It seems they were at least somewhat successful in their rouse, if Emma’s mother has changed her tune. “They’re engaged. I hardly think a tattoo is too much.” 

It’s quiet between them, the soft rustle of fabric as David no doubt reaches for his wife’s hand. Their affection is an easy thing between them, and his chest aches with the desire for the same with Emma. 

“She seems happy, doesn’t she?” 

“I said the same thing to her right before she came in here,” Killian presses his face further in the pillow, tugs the blanket closer to his chest “She really does.” 

It’s another gentle nudge in the right direction - another confirmation that he does indeed make her happy. He sees the way she laughs when she’s with him, how her eyes light up and her hair tumbles back over her shoulders. The tilt of her lips and the curve of her spine as she presses herself into him. He’s a fine expert on the things that make Emma release her grasp on her iron control. On that armour that keeps her safe but also keeps her locked away. 

He’s only ever wanted to make her happy. There was a time when he didn’t think he could ever make anyone happy, plagued by dark thoughts and insecurities. But Emma pulled him from that and he hopes - he hopes he pulls her away from her shadowed thoughts as well.   

Hearing her parents acknowledge it is enough to make his heart pound furiously in his chest. 

Now if only Emma could see it. 

“We should let him sleep,” Mary Margaret whispers. “He was up early making us breakfast.” 

“He was up early sucking up, is more like it,” Killian hopes he passes off his snort of amusement as a snore. “Go on back to the kitchen, I’m going to put another log on the fire.” 

Socks scuffle against the floorboards, the fire groaning with the addition of another log. 

“I know you’re awake,” After a stuttered breath, Killian blinks open his eyes slowly, squinting up at David as he smirks above him. Hands on his waist, he tilts his head to the side in contemplation. “You’re almost as bad at fake sleeping as Emma is.” 

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

He leverages himself out of his prone position, blanket dropping to his lap and his hands combing through his hair - sure to be a nightmare. He feels hazy from sleep, the space next to him where Emma was curled lacking her body heat. He presses his palm to it, rubs his thumb along the edge of her pillow. 

“She’s upstairs with Henry,” David supplies, face softening. “Went up there about a half hour ago.” 

His eyes flicker to the stairs and then back, wanting to retreat immediately to where Emma is but unwilling to disrespect her father. Liam ingrained in him the importance of respecting one’s elders, and old habits are difficult to break. Emma may make fun of him for his good form - 

(“I want you to ask Ruby for a coffee without saying please, just once.” 

“But it isn’t - 

“ - good form, yeah, yeah. I guess asking you to pickpocket the salt shaker is out, too.”) 

\- but it’s served him well thus far. In making him the man Liam wanted him to be. 

In making him the man _he_ wants to be. 

David chuckles at his obvious indecision and he nods towards the stairs. 

“Your leave is granted.” 

Killian smiles and shifts off the couch, folding the blanket carefully and draping it over the back edge of the wide sofa. “Appreciate that.” 

It’s a comfortable silence as he edges towards the stairwell that winds up, noticeably cooler outside the light of the fire. A shiver curls along his spine and he hopes Emma will be willing to part with the sweatshirt she commandeered. It’s the only one he’s brought, and while he does so love the way it swims on her, her hands curled in the sleeves and the way she toys with the strings when she’s got her mind occupied by other endeavors - his t-shirt is hardly appropriate for the chill settling over the house. 

“Still interested in the early morning match?” 

Killian smiles, pausing with his hand on the banister. 

“Absolutely.” 

-/- 

Her cheeks are flushed with the cold when he climbs out on the roof, both her and Henry flat on their backs as they stare up at the stars. Her eyes are red rimmed as well, but he doesn’t comment on it. He just lays flat at her side and slides his hand along her arm, tangling his fingers with hers when she flips her palm up. 

“It’s a bit like the boat, hm?” She questions, tilting her head to the side to look at him. She looks beautiful in the moonlight, but then again, she looks beautiful always.

“Aye, the stars. You stealing my sweatshirt as I shiver in the cold,” she swats his shoulder and he snickers. “It’s exactly the same, love.” 

She shuffles further into his side, head pillowed on his shoulder. Henry smiles at her softly and he wonders just what the two of them were discussing – what has her seeking comfort with tear tracks dried upon her skin. 

“It’s nice,” she mutters into his chest and he nods, combing his fingers through her hair. 

“It is indeed.” 

-/-

She doesn’t hesitate to fold herself into his arms when they go to sleep that evening, her hand sliding beneath the back of his shirt to rest against skin. He says nothing about it, but he smiles into her hair, curling himself tighter around her. 

He may be naive in his hope, but it really feels as if the tide has changed in his favor. That Emma – Emma’s beginning to see the possibility of _more_.   

(“Hope, little brother. Now, that is a miraculous thing.”) 

-/- 

His alarm pulls him from sleep well before the sun begins its ascent, Emma curled tight into his side as he attempts to silence it without jostling her in the process. She grumbles under her breath, tangled blonde hair in her face as he finally gets it to stop, gripping his shirt tight when he attempts to slip from beneath the thick quilts. 

“What’s going on?” She mumbles, painfully adorable in her half-asleep state. It’s a rare thing, for him to be awake when she is decidedly not, and he chuckles as he shifts his hand to the base of her neck and rubs gently. 

“I’m watching the match with your father, remember?” She hums non committal, and he attempts to ease himself out from beneath her. Her forehead crinkles and she blinks at him blearily, refusing to let go of his shirt. “Lass, you need to let me go.” 

“Don’t want to,” she sighs, closing her eyes as she snuggles into the pillow he’s just abandoned. He chuckles and leans forward, brushing his lips against her forehead and carefully unclenching her fingers from his t-shirt. 

“I’ll just be downstairs, darling.” 

She sighs again, foot sliding out from beneath the blankets and knocking him once in the shin. 

“Don’t forget the cream cheese,” she mutters. 

Always demanding, she is. Even in her sleep. 

He adjusts the blankets over her shoulders and presses another laughing kiss to the crown of her head, tucking her foot back beneath the quilt so she doesn’t catch a chill. “Aye, darling. I’ll remember the cream cheese.” 

-/- 

Watching the match with her father is a mostly silent affair, the both of them sprawled out against the large couches that frame the living room, the television casting dancing shadows in the dark corners. They mutually decided to keep the volume low, the cheers from the crowd a low murmur occasionally interrupted by the hiss of the fire beneath the mantle. 

It’s a lovely way to spend the early morning hours – decidedly better than watching the match on his laptop, alone in his apartment. 

“I know I was tough on you when you both first got here, but I want you to know – “ David focuses intently on the game action playing across the screen instead of Killian. “Mary Margaret and I, we’re happy to have you as a part of our family.” 

He blinks, not sure what to say to that. He swallows around the lump in his throat and takes a hasty gulp of his coffee to steady himself.   

“You don’t have to say anything,” David continues, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “Just wanted you to, uh, know you’re welcome. And Mary Margaret is really looking forward to some home brew when you guys come up for Christmas, so you know, make sure to bring that next time.” 

Next time. Christmas. It’s a statement made to bring some levity to the conversation, he knows, but instead he feels impossibly weighed down. Approval from her father, acceptance into her family – it’s more than he ever could have wished for. 

But it doesn't change the fact that this is all pretend, and come December, him and Emma will no longer be together. Emma hasn’t expressed a desire for their fake relationship to continue beyond this excursion, and the reality of their improper planning rears it’s ugly head. 

Will he still be welcome when Emma spins a tale of their break up? Will he be an accepted member of their family when he inevitably breaks her heart? 

“Thank you,” he manages, trying to keep his attention on the match instead of his wildly spiraling thoughts. “You have a lovely home, and a lovely family.” 

David attempts to hide his smile with his coffee mug, but Killian sees it all the same. “You still can’t get a tattoo for Emma, though.” 

-/- 

“You okay?” 

“Aye, Swan. M’fine.” 

“You sure, cause you look like you’re thinking really hard over there.” 

He sighs and presses his thumbs harder into the pie crust, one of the seventeen Mary Margaret has them making today. His at least look more uniform than Emma’s, though it’s a close contest. 

“Pie crust is difficult, darling,” he forces a smile. “Merely attempting to concentrate.” 

She tilts her head to the side, lovely as ever with a messy ponytail and her glasses slipping down her nose. He presses them back up with his pinky, leaving behind a smudge of flour. It’s enough to lift his spirits, albeit temporarily. 

He should like to do this again, at Christmas. 

For real, this time. 

“You sure you’re okay?” She wipes at her nose with her sleeve, missing the spot completely. He smiles down into his pie tin. 

“I’ll be just fine, love.” 

-/- 

It’s another calm and quiet day spent about the house, putting the final touches in order for the street fair that is set to commence in two days time. The stress sits heavy on Mary Margaret’s shoulders as she flits about the house, a list of errands doled out for the next day. 

Today, however,  is a day to complete the baked goods and his stomach is filled with various types of cookies and cakes as the sun sinks low in the sky. Henry does an admirable job of declaring himself taste tester without having to engage in any of the work, and Emma pretends not to notice when he slips oatmeal chocolate chip cookies off the cooling rack. 

“I know they’re your favorite,” she whispers, breath warm and damp against his ear. It’s enough to make him shiver, Henry making gagging noises on the other side of the kitchen. 

He tilts his head and bumps his forehead against hers. “How thoughtful of you, darling.” 

It’s impossible, really, to think of how it could all go badly when she’s looking up at him with flour still on her nose. 

He tucks away thoughts of their false relationship ending, and instead focuses on the moment. How she allows him to tuck her hair back behind her ears and brush a kiss to the dent in her chin. 

“Shall we order pizza for dinner?” 

Henry practically falls off his stool in his enthusiastic agreement. Emma laughs, long and loud, and this – this is what matters. 

-/- 

It’s about the moments. 

-/- 

Her parents retire to bed early and Henry leaves to visit a young friend in town, blushing furiously when Emma sing-songs about a lass named Violet, slamming the door on his way out and muttering obscenities beneath his breath. It leaves the two of them blissfully alone in the kitchen, an open bag of crisps between them as they attempt to find something to do. 

She grins at him when she throws a chip up in the air and he catches in his mouth without hesitation, his earlier sullen mood completely dissipated in the face of her cheerfulness. 

“This quaint town of yours doesn’t have any local breweries does it?” 

She shakes her head and he’s almost glad for it, not willing to share her attentions with anyone else at the moment. It’s the first time they’ve been alone and not exhausted since they’ve arrived, and he has no desire to visit the local pub only to have Walsh slide into their booth. 

Once was quite enough. 

“There’s a bar, but I’m not really in the mood for socializing.” 

Her thoughts, as ever, seem to mirror his own. 

“But, I do have an idea.” Her eyes light up in sudden delight and she reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together as she turns towards the stairs. She tugs once in impatience and snags the discarded bag of crisps from the counter, using her elbow to turn off the light. It’s a remarkable feat of multitasking and he snorts as he bumps into her in the sudden darkness. 

“What?” she whispers, hair brushing against his chin as she blindly feels her way to the landing. He places his hands on her hips as they mount the stairs, both to keep her steady in case she falls and to sure his own footing. 

Plus, he considers as he thumbs the soft skin of her hip just above her waistband; it’s a valid enough excuse to touch her. 

“I didn’t know you capable of such coordinated movement, love.” 

She snorts, gesturing with her head for him to go before her into her room. “Please, you’ve seen me take down marks before.” There’s better lighting now, the soft glow of her lamp casting her room in a warm glow. The heaters, as well, have been running all afternoon and the heat envelops him, pressing at his cheeks - his neck, the inside of his wrists. 

“Aye, I’ve also seen you trip over nary a thing,” he slips off his sweatshirt and tosses it in the corner of the room towards their bags. “Remember the incident with the - “ 

“- dozen cupcakes and the sock? Yeah, I’m frequently reminded, thanks.” 

She’s busy fiddling with one of the floorboards, knees pressed to her chest and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. 

“You did look lovely with pink frosting all over you,” he mutters, tilting his head as she bangs once at the floorboard with the heel of her palm. “What is it that you’re attempting to do, love? Have you a secret stash?” 

He thinks he’s making a joke, but his eyebrows jump in surprise when she lifts off the floorboard and pulls out a bottle. A whiskey bottle with a fine layer of dust and a couple of cobwebs, but fine nonetheless. She grins in victory. 

“Knew it was still here,” she leans back with bottle in hand, settling herself more comfortably on the floor, legs extended in front of her, framing the small hole in the floor of her bedroom. The socks she’s wearing are mismatched - one pale pink and clearly belonging to her, bunched at the ankle. The other pilfered from his suitcase, it seems, navy blue with small anchors stitched in a neat pattern. 

He mirrors her position with a chuckle. “I suppose this is your grand plan, then.” 

“I’ve had worse, right?” 

“You certainly have.” 

-/- 

The whiskey is terrible. 

A cheap, bottom of the shelf bottle she stole out of Uncle Leroy’s stash back in high school. It burns the back of his throat, nothing smooth about it, a thick aftertaste left on his tongue when he hands the bottle back to her. 

“That’s disgusting,” he manages as her nose pinches and she takes another sip. 

“Not so bad,” she gasps, whole body shivering on a sharp inhale as she pulls from the bottle, tongue licking at the back of her teeth when she’s finished. “Not so bad on the second shot.” 

She offers him the bottle again. 

-/- 

It’s just as bad on the second shot. 

-/- 

It improves, however, around the fifth.

“What were you like in high school?” 

There’s a box nestled in her lap, her thigh pressed to his, their backs resting comfortably against the edge of her bed. The whiskey warms him from the inside out, her ankle crossed haphazardly over his making his head swim in equal measure. This box of hers, the one she pulled out of the same place as the whiskey, is filled with an assortment of odds and ends from her teenage years. 

He thumbs carefully at a worn paperback, smiles at a polaroid of her and Henry from when they were much younger. The too-big shirt she has over her shoulders in the picture makes his chest hurt, an indication of all the things she wasn’t given as a child. 

“You know what I was like at that age, Swan. We met not a year removed.” 

She looks up from the small plastic ring in her hand and smiles at him. She’s breathtaking like this, flushed with drink and smiles easy and free. Whatever restraint typically holds her spine straight and shoulders hunched seems to have slipped away with her third pull from the bottle, her head tilting to rest against his shoulder. “We did, didn’t we?” 

He slips the box from her lap and closes the lid carefully, making sure all knickknacks are safely encased. His fingertips feel numb, his movements uncoordinated as he lets it slip to the hardwood, reaching for the bottle at her side and tucking himself further into her in the process. She turns her face into his arm and he presses his hand to her thigh to steady himself. 

It’s not intended. Also not unwelcome.   

Especially when she laughs against his arm, bottom lip dragging against his skin. 

“You were so serious then. So -“ she squints up at him, reaching up and rubbing her fingers against the scruff on his jaw. “- pale.” 

He snickers at that. “I’m still quite pale, Swan. And those in glass stones,” he taps at her nose. “Shouldn’t throw houses.” 

Her smile widens, if possible. “I think we might be drunk.” 

“I daresay we are.” 

“Off of bad liquor we found in my floor,” she snorts a laugh. “While we hide in my room whispering so my parents don't catch us.” 

“I know just what to do to -” he hesitates, thoughts muddled. “- to remedy the situation.” 

It suddenly seems like the best idea he’s ever had, untangling himself from Emma to lay flat on the floor. He taps at her with one sock covered foot until she sighs heavily and crawls, uncoordinated at best, to his side - her long blonde hair tickling his bare arms as she hovers over him. 

“Why is it better like this?” 

“Voices don’t carry,” he whispers, fully aware that it makes little sense. The truth is his head is beginning to swim, and he’s able to find his bearings better with his back flat against the floor. 

(With Emma tucked into his side.) 

She sighs and makes herself comfortable, resting half on top of him and half on the floor. He wraps his arm around her and she huffs into his neck, fingers toying with his necklace - pressing her thumb into the point of the little sword and wrapping her pointer around and around the chain. 

Soon her fingers take to tracing his neck instead, the bit of ink that peeks out right at his collarbone. The heat that’s been sitting low in his belly pulls tighter at that, arousal worked into him with every gentle trace of her nails against his skin. 

She doesn’t mean anything by it, he knows, but still - he can’t help but imagine what would happen if he just - 

“You weren’t always pale, you know.” 

He blinks slowly, tilting his face to hers as she keeps tracing the lines of ink, down over his thin t-shirt. She thumbs at the anchor that’s just beneath his collarbone, rubbing back and forth over the design worked into his skin though she can’t see it. She peers up at him, chin on his chest. 

“Do you remember - “ she starts, gaze darting down to his lips so quickly he fears he imagines it. But then she licks at the corner of her mouth, shifts further into him, and he knows he hasn’t. “Do you remember sophomore year, when you came back from your trip with Liam?” 

“Aye,” he remembers going to find her down in the laundry, anxious to see her after months apart. He remembers those tiny shorts, and her long, long legs. 

He remembers Neal, his palm high on her thigh. 

He can’t help the way his lips thin, fingers clenching tight against the small of her back. “Aye, I do.” 

She smiles, the dimple in her chin flashing. “You weren’t pale then,” she pushes herself up on elbows next to him, tilting far to the side and then correcting herself with a hand pushed against his chest. “You were all tan, and taller, almost? Which would be weird, wouldn’t it, because why would you grow more? But you were tan and your hair was all - “ she gestures above her head. “ - it was a mess but it looked good. You looked good. I hadn’t seen you in so long and I had missed you so much, you know?” 

“I missed you, too,” he supplies, but she doesn’t hear him, continuing her drunken rambling - lost in the memory, it would seem. 

“You were wearing that nerd shirt you have, about some chronicle of Narnia or greek mythology - thing - and it was faded a little bit from the sun so clearly you had been wearing it out on the boat and you weren’t there and then you were there and it was - just - it was the first time I wanted to ki - “ 

He blinks. Swallows hard. 

The room doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore, but perfectly still. So still he can feel every place she’s pressed against him, the way her breathing stutters when she sighs deep and cuts herself off from saying more. 

“When you wanted to what, Emma?” 

She blinks at him in return, heavy and slow. Licks at her bottom lip. 

“I wanted to kiss you,” she whispers, fingers drumming against his chest. “I wanted you to kiss me.” 

“Oh.” 

Her cheeks pink, her lip caught between her teeth. “Yeah.” When he doesn't say anything else, she averts her gaze to the space just above his left ear. “Uh, do you know where we put the bottle, because - “ 

He holds her steady from where she’s trying to ease herself up, pressed against his side with his fingers wrapped around her bicep. His mind is too muddled to make sense of what she’s saying and the idea - the thought that she _wanted_ him to kiss her years and years ago, back when they were in college, it just - 

It’s taking him a moment. 

“Do you remember that night?” He asks, thinking about how desperate he was to taste the sweat on her skin, the burn of tequila on her lips. “When we went - “ 

She relaxes back against him. “Dancing. Yeah, I do.” 

He slips his palm up her arm, toying with the sleeve of her shirt, before pressing further. She shivers when his fingers dance over the spot below her ear and he lets his thumb linger, gliding back and forth over her soft skin. 

“I wanted to kiss you then.” 

She smiles, a small hopeful thing, and leans further into his touch. It still feels as if they’re caught in a moment, nothing but the mechanical sound of the heater buzzing in the small bedroom, the both of them splayed out across the floor. His heart beats madly in his chest and he idly wonders if she can feel it, pressed as she is against him. 

“Do you remember our junior year, when we went to get ice cream because I was worried about how much time you were spending in your room? You got chocolate on your chin and I wanted - “ Her breath hitches, gaze locked firmly on his lips, and his stomach flips. “I wanted to kiss you.” 

“Senior year at graduation, when you couldn’t get your cap to stay on. I wanted to kiss you.” He tangles his hand in her hair. “Emma, the greenhouse, just a couple days ago, I wanted to kiss you.” 

She tits her head forward until her nose brushes his, until he can smell sweet whiskey on her breath. 

“I wanted you to kiss me,” she breathes. 

He half thinks he’s dreaming - too much alcohol consumed and he must be passed out on the floor of her bedroom. This is a - it’s a fantasy. It’s everything he’s always - 

He’s had this dream before. Emma leaning into him, green eyes bright beneath thick eyelashes, tongue swiping at the corner of her lips. It’s just - she feels - it’s her looking at him like she _wants_ him. 

But her skin feels real enough beneath his touch, warm and flushed, the curls at the nape of her neck hopelessly tangled as they always seem to be. His rings snag there as his fingers press tight and he leans further into her, up on his elbows as she leans above him. The floor is hard beneath him but Emma - she’s soft and her breasts are brushing his arm with every one of her deep breaths and he just - he _wants_ - 

“I want to kiss you now,” he whispers into the space just beneath her neck, nose nudging, tilting her chin up so he can brush his lips at the hollow of her throat and feel the way she shivers against him.   

She sighs out and his stomach tightens, her hand fisting in his shirt and tugging once. “I want you to kiss me.” 

These past few days he’s kissed her, but he hasn’t _kissed_ her - not like he’s wanted to. He’s kept it to soft brushes of his lips against hers, hands high on her back or firm on her hips. He hasn’t - only once did he allow himself to bury his hand in her hair the way he likes and now it’s - every kiss, every careful moment of restraint - he feels it burning just under his skin with the whiskey, with her whispered request. 

He tucks his hand firmly in her hair and tilts her head back, covering her mouth with his, catching her gasp with his tongue. She sways but he pushes himself up further, off his elbows, until she’s tucked into his body and her knee is - it’s an awkward angle – so he slips his free hand just behind it to impossibly soft skin and shifts her until he can kiss her proper, like he wants to, like he’s been _meaning_ to. 

She shifts in his grip, keeping her mouth on his, and _god_ \- all those other kisses were nothing - she’s been holding back, too - and with a tilt of her head she slips her tongue against his in a wet slide of heat and sets her knees on either side of his hips, balancing in his lap with her hands slipping over his shoulders and up his neck, into his hair. She pulls once and he groans, too lost in her to help it, too dizzy off whiskey and the taste of her to censor himself. 

“Emma,” he pants when they both pull back to breathe, his chest too tight. He keeps his hand in her hair and his eyes closed, nose digging into her cheek. He wants to kiss her again. He wants more. He wants - 

“Do you think - “ she begins, voice husky and rough. He hasn’t heard her like this before, and it’s suddenly all he ever wants her to sound like. She sounds this way because of him. Because of the way he’s making her feel. Her thumb traces nonsense just under his ear and he slips his palm from its place behind her knee up to her hip, gripping there tight to keep himself grounded.  “Do you think you could kiss me again?” 

He doesn’t bother answering, doesn’t know what he would bloody well say if he tried. He settles for pressing at her jaw with his thumb as he kisses her again, sucking at her bottom lip roughly until she makes a desperate noise in the back of her throat. It drives him near madness, it does, so he groans into her again, the hand on her hip pulling her down into him, encouraging her when she gives a gentle rock of her hips against his. 

He’s hard in his jeans - he’d been halfway there thinking of her in the tiny half-destroyed shorts she wears when she’s doing laundry. Now though, with her writhing in his lap, desperately trying to swallow her tiny, gasping breaths - he’s impossibly so. He feels as if he’s drowning in her - his mouth leaving hers only to drag his teeth to the place just under her ear. 

He wants to ask her what this means, maybe stop and ask her if she’s sure. But she sighs out his name and drops her head back when he sucks hard at her skin and he loses himself, a bit. Maybe this can be - if he can’t convince her otherwise, maybe this is enough to show her. 

(How he feels. 

How good they can be together. 

How beautiful she is.) 

Her hands are cold when they press under his shirt but he pays them no mind, too enamored instead with the strong line of her jaw and the way she rolls down harder in his lap when he licks just beneath it, pressing wet, sloppy kisses in a haphazard line down her neck. He has to stop when she manages his shirt halfway up his torso, a furious tug practically strangling him. 

“Wait a moment, just,” he leans back and reaches over his shoulder, gripping his shirt in the middle and tugging it firmly over his head. She drags her mouth along his shoulder as he tries to free himself from his cotton prison, her tongue tracing along the thick line of the anchor below his collarbone when he finally manages to fling his shirt across the room. 

He cups the back of her head gently, watching her tongue glide along his skin, feeling the heat of it as she traces the design first with her mouth and then with her fingers. It’s a rather frequent fantasy of his - Emma cataloging his ink with her mouth, making new marks with her teeth. 

He slips his hands under the back of her shirt, tracing the dimples at the base of her spine with his thumbs, suddenly desperate to feel her skin against his. He tugs lightly at the hem and she nods against him, not moving her mouth from the constellations inked on his shoulder. 

It’s a bit of a rush after that. 

She’s all pale, perfect skin in the soft light of the lamp on the nightstand, breasts heaving in the constraints of her bra. He noses along the edge of the cups, wanting desperately to drag it down with his teeth – mark her in the same way she’s marking him. She makes another stilted sound beneath her breath and he wraps his arms tight around her, intending to pick her up, move them both to the bed where he can spread her out - see her flushed and pink, hair about her shoulders and lips kiss-swollen. 

“No,” she mutters, rocking herself a bit harder against him. He’s always known about the smattering of freckles on her thigh just above her knee, just under the hem of her shorts. But it’s another matter entirely to trace them with his fingertips. To push her shorts up until his thumb grazes the edge of her underwear and he can splay his hand wide. “The bed squeaks and we can’t - “ she exhales, tensing in his arms and he recognizes it as too much time to think. He knows her well enough that this is action born of instinct - she’s just chasing how she feels in the moment. 

God help him, it’s good enough. 

(If she feels this way now - if she wants him _now_ \- perhaps she will want him later. If he can take care of her - if he can make her feel good - ) 

She noses at his cheek and drags her fingers down his bare back, slipping along the hem of his jeans to the front. She thumb at the button and he - he _wants_. “Can we just do this?” 

He brushes his lips back and forth along her temple and presses circles into the soft skin of her thigh until she relaxes back in his arms. “Aye, love. We can do this.” He collects her hands in his and pulls them back to his chest. She quirks an eyebrow and he snorts a laugh, pushing his hips up and rocking her forward in the same moment, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. “Like this, yeah?” 

He isn’t sure he can handle her hands on him, not when she looks so damn good rocking in his lap the way she is – turning her hips in a circle and dropping her head back so he can press his mouth to her throat. It’s not as clear as he wants it to be – everything a bit hazy at the edges. He wants to remember the shade of her eyes when he slips his hand up higher until it’s between her legs, how her teeth bite down on her lower lip when he thumbs at her through her underwear. 

“Is this – “ 

“Yeah, that’s good,” she sighs and nods, half smile curling her lips. She pulls herself straight in his arms and balances her forehead against his, sitting up on her knees a bit so he can press at her harder. He can feel her through the thin material and she’s – _god_ – 

“You’re so warm,” he mumbles, Curls his fingers around the lace edges so he can slip his hand beneath. “Fucking hell, Swan, you’re so wet.” 

She mumbles something under her breath that he doesn’t catch, matching the motion of her hips to the gentle press of his hand. He drags his knuckles up to her clit and presses hard, lets her chase her own pleasure as he stares at his hand moving beneath her shorts. It’s unbearably erotic and entirely too much, especially when she loops her fingers around his wrist and guides his hand tighter against her – so his rings are rubbing where she needs him most. 

She stares down at him as she moves above him, her hands bracketed behind his neck and urging his face to tilt towards hers. She bites at his bottom lip and pulls, and he suddenly needs to feel more of her than her breasts brushing his bare chest and his hand tucked into her sleep shorts. 

Her laughter is breathy as he loops his arms around the small of her back and encourages her ankles to cross at the small of his back, shuffling forward on his knees until he can press her down into the threadbare rug in the middle of the floor. 

“Knew that would work,” she sighs, pressing her hips into his when they’re settled on the floor, his hand sliding up her thigh to pull her legs wider beneath him. His cock presses heavy against the zipper of his jeans, the friction maddening when he rolls his hips in a dirty grind against hers. 

“What would work?” He manages into the place between her shoulder and neck, hand molding against her breast and thumbing at her nipple through the thin material of her bra. He can taste the spice from the cookies on her skin, sugar from when she was making the icing for the cakes. Her back arches and he spreads her legs a bit wider, ruts a bit harder.

“I wanted – “ Her fingers fist in his hair when he slips his thumb just under her bra, pushing down the cup in one easy motion until her nipple drags against the center of his palm. He squeezes rough and she breathes out. “I wanted to get you like this.” 

“Is this something you’ve thought of, love?” 

“Less clothes,” she chuckles. “But this is good, too.” There’s a bead of sweat slipping down the smooth column of her neck and he catches it with his tongue, his hips moving against hers faster with the admission that she’s thought about this. Tension pulls at the base of his spine and it seems he doesn’t even need to fuck her proper – rutting against her with his jeans low on his hips, the zipper biting into the skin of her belly, her bra pulled down on just one side is more than enough to make him feel as if he’s being ripped apart at the seams. 

But then again, she’s always been able to undo him with hardly a look – a smile, a touch – a whisper of his name. 

It’s a challenge to bite his tongue, to keep himself from spilling the words he wishes to say as she moans into his neck and bites down on his collarbone to keep from making a sound. He wants to tell her he’s thought about this since she damn near broke his arm in first year of university. He wants to tell her that she’s a god damned temptation on her worst day. He wants to tell her he’s dreamed about the feel of her splayed out beneath him, just like this. That he loves the sounds she’s desperately biting back, loves her tangled hair pillowed beneath her, loves the way she chases his hips with her own – just as desperate. 

He wants to tell her he loves her.

“You feel so good, darling,” she presses the heel of her foot just behind his knee, using the leverage to grind up against him. He curses beneath his breath as the pleasure sparks and spreads. She’s close, he can feel it in the way her thighs shake around his hips, the way her breathing hiccups with every roll of his hips against her. “What do you need? Please, Emma, tell me what you need.” 

“You,” she answers immediately, head thrown back against the floor, her legs tightening around his hips and the flush on her cheeks matching that on her bouncing breasts. She whimpers his name as he pushes against her once more, head duckling down to take her nipple in his mouth. She tastes like honey beneath his tongue, sweet as sugar as he works at her with lips and teeth and tongue. She’ll have marks from his beard, he’s sure, and the satisfaction that settles in his bones is enough to have him slip his hand down the back of her shorts, angling her up so his thrusts meet her just right. His cock presses where she’s hot and wet and he wants so badly to yank down her underwear with his teeth, to slip inside her and feel how hot she is for him.   

She tenses beneath him and clenches her fists in his hair, the pleasure pain of it combined with the indecent thoughts of bending her bare over the side of her bed sparking his own orgasm – pleasure tingling along the backs of his thighs to between his legs, pulsing hot as he continues to grind against her. 

He pushes the both of them through it, collapsing against her when she goes limp beneath him, breathing hard into her neck. She cards her fingers gently through his hair, his exhaustion immediate, the buzz from the liquor and his orgasm settling warm in his belly. He cares not a lick that he’s just managed to come in his pants like a teenager. He only cares that she is still pliant beneath him, a happy sigh whispered under her breath when he brushes his lips against her shoulder. 

“We should move to the bed,” she mumbles after several moments of no movement between the both of them. It’s enough to give his hazy mind hope – that nothing has to change. That she might see him – _them_ – as more than a possibility. 

(That she might want him for real this time.) 

It feels monumental, this moment. 

He sighs, nuzzling further into her, thumbing at the bare skin of her waist. “I’m quite fine here, actually.” 

“Floor’s too hard,” she encourages him up with her hands against his chest, smirking when he grimaces at the discomfort in his jeans. “You’ll regret it in the morning.” 

He helps her up, adjusting her bra strap and smiling into her mouth when she leans forward to kiss him in thanks – a bit sloppy as she tilts to the side. 

“Not possible, love.” 

-/- 

He wakes gradually, face buried in Emma’s pillow, his legs twisted in the comforter sitting low around his hips. His mouth feels as if it’s filled with cotton and his head throbs in time with the aggressive prodding at the back of his neck – his half-hearted attempt to push it away only resulting with a startling accurate hit by one of the decorative pillows. 

“Get up, would you?” Henry sounds so much like Emma when he’s irritated, it’s a bit unnerving. “It’s practically noon.” 

He startles at that, shifting onto his back and peering blearily up at Henry standing above him. He’s very much alone in the bed, the only sign of Emma his sweatshirt from the night previous angled over the lamp from where she flung it. 

(Where she flung it as he traced his tongue down her neck, his hands cupping the swell of her ass and her hands in his hair.) 

He shifts his legs and tries to remember if it was all but a dream – wonders if he looks as hungover as he feels.   

“Where’s Emma?” 

Henry frowns. “She went out early this morning with Mom to run some errands, said you’d be going with me to tackle this list.” He thrusts the piece of paper in Killian’s face, a neat and extensive list of errands for the day. “Get  showered and we’ll get started.” 

Henry disappears without another word, thundering down the steps to wreak havoc on the pantry, no doubt. His stomach sinks as he glances at the list in his hand. It would seem that the errands listed are all carefully orchestrated to keep him away from the house for the day. 

Keep him away from her. 

He may not regret last night, but it seems – it seems like perhaps Emma might.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, sitting up in bed and cursing again when the room tilts perilously. He feels as if he might be sick, and it has nothing to do with the cheap whiskey in the floorboards.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

She remembers everything.

Well, she concedes, thumbing at the mystery hickey just below her collarbone as she pulls down the collar of her borrowed t-shirt to reveal the beard burn between her breasts, she remembers  _ almost _ everything.

(His breath on her neck, his body pressing hers down into the rug. His hands beneath her shorts tilting her hips up so his could hit her just right, a dirty grind with a gasping breath.

“Is this – “ His voice rougher than she ever heard it before, his bottom lip dragging against the soft skin just below her ear.

“Yeah, that’s good.”)

“Fuck,” she whispers, closing her eyes and dropping her head against the mirrored glass that hangs cockeyed above the sink. It would be better if she didn’t remember, probably, because this is going to be a problem. “Fucking fuck.”

One time isn’t going to be enough. There had been a part of her last night - some reckless, clearly unstable part of her - that had figured alcohol would be as good excuse as any to explore this particular thought of hers. What he might be like, if she kissed him. What he might do, if she climbed into his lap and ground herself down on him.

What his groan might taste like on her tongue. How his skin would feel pressed against hers.

She peers open one eye blearily and looks at the line of hickeys down the expanse of her throat.

“Yeah, well, you got your answer, didn’t you,” she mumbles to her reflection, reaching for the glass Henry’s kept on the left hand side since he was about thirteen and filling it with lukewarm tap water. Her throat feels like sandpaper, the need for water urging her from her place half draped over Killian. He had hardly stirred when she heaved herself from the bed, a furrow between his eyebrows the only acknowledgment when she nearly killed herself on her discarded t-shirt from the night prior.

They’ll have to talk about this, she knows. It’s too big of a thing not to talk about, even for them. She remembers Henry’s words from when they were laying out on the roof, how the scary things are worth doing because it means you’re doing it  _ right _ .

(“He’s not going to let you down, Emma.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.”)

Maybe she can - maybe it’s time she starts being a little brave.

“Emma?”

She drops the glass in the sink, hastily trying to cover the love bites littered all over her neck as her mother edges into the bathroom. It’s fruitless though, Mary Margaret’s eyebrow arching high on her forehead as soon as she’s balanced in the doorway.

Emma’s hand flutters against her neck, palm pressed tight over the more aggressive bruise that sits prettily between neck and shoulder.

(The one where he had worried at her skin with his teeth, groaning rough against her pulse point and pressing his hips harder as she spread her legs wider. A sharp pain and a tug low in her belly, his tongue soothing over the mark - a wet suck that had her arching her back.)

( _ God. _ )

“Are we still on for the walk-through this morning?”

Emma blinks. “Uh, yeah. Definitely. Just let me - “

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” she shifts and a smile twitches at the corners of Mary Margaret’s mouth. “Okay, definitely. Give me a few minutes and I’ll put myself together. Meet you downstairs?”

Mary Margaret nods, gaze lingering, and Emma is reminded of that time she was seventeen and stupid and came home without her bra on to her mother sitting at the kitchen table over a nice cup of tea. But this feels worse because she knows she looks as wrecked as she feels, her lips still swollen and her hair in tangles.

She looks like she’s been well and truly fucked, and all they did was dry hump aggressively on the floor.

(It feels like more. It feels like -

His hand in hers and blueberry juice staining his bottom lip. Like his sweatshirt across her shoulders and his leather creaking against hers. Cookies stolen off the tray and bacon burnt along the edges.

It feels like everything.)

She shifts her palm to cover more of her neck.

Her mother  _ smirks _ at her.

“Wear a turtleneck today? We don’t want to give your dad a heart attack or mysteriously lose Killian in the woods.”

Emma smiles tightly. “You got it.”

-/-

The turtleneck in question is shoved haphazardly in the bottom corner of her suitcase, putting up one hell of a fight as she tries discretely to get dressed in the dark of her bedroom without waking Killian. He always sleeps like the dead after a night of drinking, but she makes sure to slip on her (his) socks before padding about the room - avoiding the creaky floor panels next to her dresser.

She doesn't want to start the conversation she knows they need to have when she’s halfway out the door. She doesn't know what she would say if he woke up now, or if she would be able to resist the way his eyelids hang heavy when he’s hungover. How his hair sticks up on the left side and his voice drags rough around the edges.

God, she’s a mess.

She’ll talk to him when she gets back, hopefully after a cup or two of coffee and with somewhat organized thoughts.  _ I want to try that again without clothes  _ probably isn't the best opening line. Nor is  _ I like your face when you’re smiling and I want to do this for real. _

There are still the thoughts in the back of her head, too, of how this might be a bad idea. They work here, sure, like this. In an imaginary bubble with an imaginary history and an imaginary engagement. But would it translate, back home? Has he just been really good at pretending this whole time? It didn’t feel like it last night, but -

They need to talk.

(She needs him to reassure her. That they can do this. That  _ she _ can do this.)

She tiptoes over to where he lays sprawled across the bed, ghosting her fingers over the tip of his ear. He mutters something under his breath and shifts in the bed, curling himself around her pillow and exhaling with a grunt that sounds vaguely like her name. She smiles.

“I’ll see you later,” she whispers, scratching her fingers down his neck and snorting when his feet shuffle beneath the blankets. She has the urge to brush a kiss over his temple, a stupid desire that she stomps down on as soon as her fingers press against his sleep-warm skin. They need to talk first. They’ll figure out everything else -

“Later,” she sighs, shaking her head and retreating from the room.

There will be plenty of time later.

-/-

They’re in the car for twenty three seconds before -

“So it looks like you and Killian had a nice evening.”

She adjusts the collar of her turtleneck just a bit higher, trying to ignore the way the thick fabric irritates the beard burn on her chest. She has no idea how long the red marks will last, recalling how Killian had repeatedly pressed his face between her breasts, his exhales hot and heavy on the hollow of her throat as she hugged his hips with her knees and moved above him.

She idly wonders if it would feel any different on the inside of her thighs.

She shifts in her seat.

“Uh,” she doesn't really know where to begin. “Thank you?”

Mary Margaret chuckles and turns smoothly onto the main street that cuts through the center of town, two twin strands of garland announcing their entrance into downtown Storybrooke. One stoplight, and probably less than three square miles - but downtown, nonetheless. All of the tents lining the road are constructed, the fairy lights twinkling in the early morning light. It looks damn near perfect and she says as much, watching as her mom’s face colors with pride.

“It did turn out nice, didn’t it?”

“Of course it did,” she reaches for Mary Margaret’s hand on the console between them, tangling their fingers together. “You’re the one running the show.”

Mary Margaret always has been the big vision type, fussing over the details to an almost manic level to get everything just right. She was the same way when Emma was in high school and had ridiculous science projects to complete. When Emma was being made fun of by the other kids and Mary Margaret marched right into the principal’s office with a binder full of notes and diagrams and whatever else on anti-bullying. It hadn’t exactly helped, but it was the first time someone had actually been on Emma’s side.

Besides Henry of course.

She supposes that’s how all the Walsh stuff happened. Her mom was just applying that same enthusiasm to her love life - fixating on Walsh and putting all her hopes and dreams and unicorn stickers on a man she thought could make Emma happy.

(“It’s all I ever wanted, to see you happy.” A pause and a gentle smile, knowing eyes crinkling at the corners. “Killian makes you happy.”)

Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. “It’s good to have you home, honey.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m being really nice.”

“Nah, but it helps,” her hand slips from Emma’s to flick on the blinker, sliding seamlessly down a side street. “Now,” her voice is all reformed teacher, current Mayor. “Don’t think you’re going to distract me. I want to hear more about Killian.”

She drops her head against the headrest, rolling her eyes but feeling a warmth in her chest that has nothing to do with the way the heat is blasting. She bites at her bottom lip in a valiant attempt to hide her smile, but judging by the wide grin on Mary Margaret’s face, she’s not as subtle as she thinks.

“What do you want to know?”

-/-

“Does he have a tattoo for you?”

She blushes, thinking of the ink that streaks thick across his chest, down his ribs, and low on his hips. The one that curls around his bicep. How she mouthed at the one just below his collarbone last night and the sound he made low in his throat.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Your father and I were wondering.”

“You and dad have conversations about this?”

Mary Margaret shrugs. “It’s an important thing.”

“How? How is this an important thing?”

“Okay, next question,” she hits reverse, parallel parking the car in a series of easy movements. “Does he usually leave marks like that or was that just a - “

“Mom!”

“You know, your father - “

“Oh my god, I want to know nothing about what you’re going to say.”

-/-

It’s nice, spending time with her mom without having to dodge a conversation. There had been tension and resentment and hurt feelings but this -

This is nice.

-/-

Nice up until the end of the walk through, after they’ve seen the placement for the lanterns and been assured that the hot chocolate will be served actually hot and with extra chocolate - like extra, extra chocolate - little sticks of peppermint to be used as stirring rods because it might only be November, but there’s nothing wrong with a little early festivity. Mary Margaret makes a comment in passing about how nice it’ll be to have Killian around for the holidays and she feels her smile falter a bit at the edges.

She hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t really thought past this week.

(She wonders if Killian has.)

(She’ll talk to him later.)

But the day is nice - the festival is nice - everything is perfect up until Walsh decides to make an appearance.

“Mom, honestly.”

Mary Margaret puts her hands up, mittens out, and Emma rolls her eyes at the two kitten faces peering out at her from the palms of her mother’s hands. Stitched kitten faces is a bit much, even for a former preschool teacher.

“I didn’t invite him, I promise. He’s one of the vendors, so I guess he got the walk-through schedule.”

Emma believes her, preparing herself to just ignore him. Unfortunately, Gepetto chooses that moment to call her mother over and ask her about the structural integrity of the stage and Walsh seizes his opportunity.

He sidles up as soon as Mary Margaret leaves her side, smirk firmly in place and hands pressed in his pockets. “So,” he begins, and she hurries her steps, closing the distance between her and her mother, trying to shake off the monkey on her back without looking like she’s sprinting to the stage. “Over or under 3 months.”

She shouldn’t take the bait, she knows she shouldn’t, but she’s only had one cup of coffee and she can’t really feel her toes anymore. She’s always been easy to provoke when riding a wave of irritation, and Walsh knows it.

“3 months, what?”

He grins. “You and Killian. Over or under 3 months before you shut it down.”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re - “

“ - engaged, yes I know. Which happened quickly, it would seem. Which clearly means he knows how easily you bolt if he felt the need to put a ring on it so soon. But you know what I think, Emma?”

She keeps walking, trying to catch Mary Margaret’s eye. “I don’t give a shit what you think, Walsh.”

“I think you’re just as likely to bolt with a ring on your finger. I think you’re going to get scared and run off. I think -” he cuts in front of her and thumbs at her zipper the same way he did two days ago, her face pinching when his knuckles brush just under her collarbone. She grips his wrist and bends it backwards - not enough to cause damage, but certainly enough for him to get the message: Back. Off. He smiles again. “I think you’ll mess it up in the end, like you always do.”

“Thanks for the feedback,” she squeezes his wrist once more for good measure, delighting in the wince that pulls his eyebrows tight together. “Now I suggest you stay far away from me - and Killian, and my family.”

He leans in close. “You’re -”

“Take your hands off my daughter.”

Emma doesn't point out that she’s the one who has her hands on Walsh, bending his wrist back further and further as he continues to be an asshole. She releases his arm and steps away, closer to Mary Margaret as Walsh laughs and shakes out his arm.

“Apologies, Madam Mayor,” he ducks his head in respect, back to humble furniture shop owner. “Emma and I were just having a little chat.”

“Being a little asshole is more like it,” Emma mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. Mary Margaret shoots her a questioning look but Emma shakes her head.

Walsh takes the hint. “Always lovely seeing you both.”

They watch him walk away, his words bouncing around Emma’s head until Mary Margaret tucks her arm through her elbow and guides the both of them towards the diner.

“Want another cup of coffee?”

Emma breathes out. “God, yes.”

-/-

She’s not scared. She’s not. She’s just -

Apprehensive is probably the best word. Because what if it doesn’t work out? What if she does screw it up and Killian realizes what a mess she actually is? She doesn't know what she would do if he didn’t stuff protein bars into her glove compartment. If she couldn’t go to his bar and,  _ god  _ \- what if she couldn’t  _ go to the bar? _

“Emma, you alright?”

She forces a smile and takes a sip of her too hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process. “Fine,” she shakes her head and tries to remember what it was Henry said about being brave. “I’m good.”

-/-

She needs to talk to Killian.

-/-

She needs to talk to Killian, but her mom asks her to meet her father out at the fields to pick up barrels for apple bobbing. She reaches for her phone on the drive over only to realize she’s left it at home, probably still shoved somewhere under the rug in the center of the room. She huffs through her nose and borrows Mary Margaret’s, shooting a quick text off to Henry to let Killian know where she is, and she’ll be home soon. She gets a complicated arrangement of emojis back and rolls her eyes, setting herself to just forgetting about the conversation she needs to have with Killian, and losing herself in errands instead.

It sticks, though. In the back of her mind, it sticks. Walsh’s words and the near endless ways things could go wrong between her and Killian. She can feel herself hesitating the longer she’s away from him. It doesn’t sound like the same good idea, and last night is looking more and more like a terrible mistake.

She could already have ruined everything. Before she’s even told him how she feels.

“You alright, Emma?”

She’s getting real tired of people asking her that.

She heaves the barrels into the bed of her dad’s truck with a little more force than necessary, the crack of them as they land oddly satisfying. It’ll be a miracle if they even hold water, but it’s not one of her top concerns at the moment.

“Fine,” she mutters, ignoring the way David is side eyeing her from the hub. “Is that everything or does mom have something else for me to do?”

David frowns. “She wanted to know if you could swing by the bakery on your way home. Just double check that all the baked goods for tomorrow are accounted for.”

“More than the thirty-eight pies lining every flat surface of our house?”

David chuckles, his arm swinging over her shoulder. “You know how your mom likes to be prepared.”

-/-

Six dozen orders of cupcakes, at least four boxes of danishes, and -

“Homemade poptarts? Really?”

The baker looks more than a little offended. “They’re really good.”

“Yeah, but why not just buy the - “ She nods, ignoring the death glare she’s getting over the countertop. “You know what, nevermind.”

The last thing she wants is for the whole lot of  _ homemade poptarts  _ to be laced with something. She’s almost out the door, before -

“Oh, your mom wanted to know if you could stop by the docks and just make sure they’re bringing the extra decorations.”

“Oh my  _ god _ .”

-/-

By the time she gets back home, it’s nearly dark, the sun casting its last feeble rays over the yard. The house looks quiet and empty as she slips out of the truck, her mom’s car missing in the driveway. If she’s been laden with a variety of errands today, she can only imagine what Killian’s been caught with. She feels a brief pang of guilt that he’s using his vacation days as glorified errand boy, but she can’t quite muster disappointment when she realizes he’s not home just yet.

She needs a minute to get herself together.

She needs to figure out what she’s going to say.

She’s had some time to think today and - it wasn’t what Walsh said as much as  _ how _ he said it, the absolute certainty. The man definitely has his shortcomings but he isn’t wrong. She’s never had a relationship last longer than a couple months at most and they’ve always crumbled because of  _ her _ .

She can’t do the same thing with Killian. She wouldn’t survive it if they tried something only for her to ruin it, if she lost  him in her life. She’s managed to withstand a lot of loss and abandonment, but Killian - she’s not sure she could handle it.

She takes a deep breath of cold Maine air, feeling it burn at her lungs. Breathes out and watches the cloud of white dissipate around her.

She can’t do it.

-/-

She hides up in her room, uncovering her phone from beneath the rug and plugging it into the charger. She curls her legs beneath her and ignores the sick feeling in her stomach as she waits, rehearsing opening lines and being angry with herself for her inability to be a Normal Human Being with Normal Emotions.

The door slams and she hears muted voices down in the foyer, Killian’s rumbling accent accompanied by stomping boots and the exchange of bags. Her dad had mentioned something about the boys stopping by the grocery for more baking supplies, her mother’s stress for tomorrow culminating in the need for additional cookies, apparently.

The steps creak and butterflies erupt in her stomach.

It’s stupid to be as nervous as she is. She’s never had any problems talking to Killian, but this is different. This is feelings and honesty and - lying to herself and lying to him when she tells him that last night isn’t exactly everything she wants.

(That this whole week isn’t exactly everything she has ever wanted.)

(It’s  _ Killian _ .)

“No need to look as if you’re going to the gallows, love,” Killian shuts the door carefully behind him, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the frame. “It’s just me.”

He’s hurt. He’s keeping his distance from her and his gaze carefully away from the rug in the center of the floor where they - where  _ she _ -

“Last night was a mistake,” she blurts, hands twisting anxiously in her lap.

“Right out with it then,” he mutters, adjusting his position and pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head, drops it back briefly against the door, and then meets her gaze with tired eyes. “I suppose you’ve had all day to go and convince yourself then.”

He doesn’t sound angry, just - defeated. Like he knew this was exactly what she was going to say.

Somehow that makes it worse.

“Were you intentionally avoiding me or was that just a happy accident?” He pushes off the door and fusses with the sleeve of his flannel, thumbing at the hem and flicking at the button. “I rather thought we were beyond that, but perhaps I was wrong.”

He looks up at her and his eyes -  _ god _ \- his eyes are just impossibly sad.

It’s exactly why she needs to end it now. She can’t stand the look on his face or the way he’s holding himself away from her. How his shoulders pull tight and his lips twist down in a frown. It’s because of her -  _ she  _ did that - and she just -

She can’t do this. She can’t have more with him just to lose it because she’s shit when it comes to relationships.

She can’t lose him.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, Killian. I promise. I just - “

“Six texts,” he supplies. “And it seems you had no trouble replying to your brother.”

“I left my phone here,” she nods to where it’s plugged in on the nightstand, screen still black. “I used my mom’s phone to text Henry. I told him to tell you, but I guess he didn’t.”

Killian shrugs, smiling tightly. “A miscommunication then.”

This version of him - this shuttered, tense versions of him - she hates it. Maybe if she had woken him up this morning, maybe if she hadn’t been so selfish last night -

Maybe if she had never suggested this whole fake relationship in the first place.

She shakes her head. “We shouldn’t have done that last night.” He opens his mouth, but she waves him off. “ _ I  _ shouldn’t have done that last night. I started it and I don’t really know what I was thinking.”

He considers her carefully, thumb tapping at his bottom lip. “Was it a lie then?”

“Was what a lie?”

“When you told me how you wished for me to kiss you?” A hot blush climbs her cheeks, her heart pounding in her chest. It’s probably the most honest they’ve ever been with one another, and she forces herself to keep her gaze steady on his. This thing - it’s always been lingering between them, she can see that now - but they’ve been content to leave it. He hasn’t pushed and she hasn’t offered and it just - it went ignored.

Not anymore, apparently.

He raises an eyebrow and gestures with his hand between them. “Was it the alcohol talking, or - “

“We both know alcohol doesn't make you lie, Killian,” she frowns, picking at a stray piece of thread on her jeans. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Then forgive me, because I don’t seem to understand.”

A bit of his frustration edges along his words and she feels her own flare up in response. He’s always  been good at drawing responses out of her, and she forces her mind resolutely away from just how good he was at exactly that last night. She bites the inside of her cheek, wishing this would be one of those times he would just  _ get it _ without her having to say a word.

“We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

_ Because I’ll fuck it up,  _ she wants to say.  _ Because I was brave this morning but it’s gone now _ , she wants to explain.  _ Because you mean too much for me to lose _ .

“Ah, I see,” he does that same complicated thing with his mouth that looks like an attempt at a smile, but results in a wince instead. “This week was a trial, wasn’t it?”

She thinks about that for a moment. This week had been a test of sorts, but not in the way he obviously means. She was just - she was trying to give herself something to hold on to. She figured when this all started that something would be better than nothing. That in the end, having him for a week - a perfect, single, isolated week - that it would be enough. She’d be able to go back to Portland, being his friend, satisfied that the reality of having him didn’t live up to the elaborate fantasy in her head.

She didn’t expect to feel so much.

She didn’t expect to fall more in love with him.

A week is all she’s good for, anyway. Like Walsh said, she always inevitably ruins it in the end. Her and Killian - they’re not even together for real - and she’s already messing it up.

It was  _ one night _ and she’s messing it up.

“We can’t be together,” she repeats with conviction, fighting to keep her voice steady. “We work better as friends and I just - I need you as my friend, Killian.”

He keeps quiet, scratching behind his ear and shuffling his feet.

“Killian, please,” her voice breaks and she blinks rapidly, horrified to feel tears pressing at her eyes. She’s doing all of this so she doesn’t lose him and it feels like - it feels like he’s slipping away regardless. “Will you still be my friend?”

She  _ hates _ this - suddenly a little kid again and sitting in the beat up back seat of a Buick, clutching a teddy bear that never really belonged to her and begging to keep her family. For them to want to keep her.

(Mid-twenties and sitting on a perfectly made bed, wearing a ring that never really belonged to her and begging to keep him. For him to want to keep her.)

His head snaps up, his face a devastated mixture of concerned and frustrated. He takes half a step forward before thinking better of it, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

(She hates this.)

“Of course. Our relationship has always been as much your choice as mine, I just - “ he breathes out deep through his nose and shakes his head. She hears what he’s not saying.  _ I wish you would take a chance. _

“Your friend I shall remain,” he nods, looking up at her through his eyelashes with a forced sort of smile that’s brittle along the edges. Of everything that’s happened in the last fifteen minutes, it’s what hurts the most. “I’m going to - “ he hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just be downstairs.”

“Killian - “

“I need a moment, Swan. If you don’t mind.”

_ I can’t be around you right now. _

She hears him loud and clear.

-/-

She chooses to stay upstairs, distracting herself with carefully folding the clothes strewn about the room instead of following him down. She wants to give him the space he needs - wants to prove to him that this can still work. They can go back to Portland and it can be like nothing has changed.

Her phone buzzes to life on the nightstand and she reaches for it without thinking, thumbing through the unread messages she’s missed throughout the day. Her heart drops when she sees Killian’s name towards the top.

_ Killian Jones: Where did you disappear to, Swan? _

A couple hours later.

_ Killian Jones: Will I see you for lunch, at least? _

_ Killian Jones: Perhaps an afternoon tea break? _

Another hour or two, without a response from her. 

_ Killian Jones: Well, I know you’re alive as you’ve responded to Henry. _

_ Killian Jones: I’m not exactly sure what to do here, love. I’m going to need your help. _

_ Killian Jones: Emma, please. Don’t shut me out. _

She taps her thumb against the screen and drops her head back against her closet door, closing her eyes. She rolls her neck and stares at her phone again.

“Fuck,” she whispers, tossing it into her suitcase face down.

This is a new level of fucking up, even for her.

-/-

He doesn't come back to her bedroom so she crawls into bed by herself when her limbs grow tired and she almost falls asleep three times against the closet, pulling his sweatshirt tight around her shoulders and curling her fists in the sleeves. It’s a poor substitute for the press of his body against hers, but it smells like the soap he uses and her honey shampoo and it’s enough for her to pretend everything is alright between them.

Later, much later, she hears the door creak open, her heart somewhere in her throat when his feet shuffle against the floorboards. He seems to hesitate, lingering at the edge of her bed, and she’s just about to flip on her side and reach for him, apologize that she can’t be more for him, when he sighs out deep through his nose.

She stills, waiting. 

He grabs the blanket at the edge of the bed, gentle as to not wake her. His feet scuffle back across the floor boards and the door creaks.

He shuts it carefully behind him, leaving her alone in her room.

This, she thinks, a tear slipping down her cheek to the edge of her nose - this is definitely the worst part. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_ Killian Jones: Perhaps an afternoon tea break? _

He doesn't wish to be this type of person. This sad, miserable man shuffling after Henry in the grocery with his phone clutched in his hand, sending her a string of messages in a horribly transparent attempt to gauge her mood. But he’s feeling a bit desperate after waking up alone, and if he knows anything about Emma, it’s that she can convince herself of even the most absurd of notions if left to her own thoughts for too long.

He glances at his phone again.

“You’re being weird,” Henry accuses, reaching for a bag of chocolate chips and tossing them without looking into the cart. He narrowly misses several cartons of eggs balancing rather precariously, and Killian winces. “Why are you being weird?”

Killian sighs and grabs the bag, exchanging it with the cheaper option on the shelf, snagging the in-store coupon and slipping it into his back pocket. Emma would call him ridiculous for it, he knows, but the bloody coupons are there for a reason.

“I’m hardly being weird.”

“Sure you’re not,” Henry gives a pointed glance to the neatly organized groceries, then Killian’s phone. “You’re just super invested in catching ‘em all.”

“Already caught them all,” Killian responds blithely, smile tight. There’s a headache somewhere behind his eyes, and he dearly wishes for another cup of coffee or seven. “Have you heard from your sister yet today?”

“No, but you know how she is.”

Yeah.

He knows how she is.

-/-

“She says she’s heading to the fields with dad for something,” Henry supplies as they load groceries into the trunk, maneuvering around the corn stalks they were tasked with gathering prior to their little foray to the grocer. “Also said mom is hitting new levels in list making.”

“Aye,” Killian eyes the collection of goods shoved haphazardly in the trunk, an odd assortment if he’s ever seen one. “I’ve gathered that.”

He slips his phone out of his back pocket, half dreading the one word answer most likely awaiting him from Emma. He remembers the last time she avoided him, how he had received no more than two syllables over the course of a week.

When he sees nothing at all, he frowns.

_ Killian Jones: Well, I know you’re alive as you’ve responded to Henry. _

He taps his phone against his knee. He had half expected her ardent avoidance when he woke up to find her already missing from their bed, but it doesn't stop the hot sting of disappointment from prickling at the back of his neck. He thought - well, he thought that this time it might be different. That she wouldn’t run from him. He flips his phone in his hand once, and opts for honesty.

_ Killian Jones: I’m not exactly sure what to do here, love. I’m going to need your help. _

Perhaps that will do the trick.

-/-

_ Killian Jones: Emma, please. Don’t shut me out. _

-/-

She doesn't answer.

-/-

By the time he arrives back to her parent’s home, he’s come to terms with the fact that last night did not mean to Emma what it meant to him. He knows well and good what her silence means, and it’s with heavy feet and a heavy heart that he drags himself up the stairs.

He’s hesitant to hear her say the words though, to see the look on her face when she tells him he’s not enough.

He’s hardly through the door when she blurts exactly that.

“Last night was a mistake.”

She voices her hesitations, tripping along her words and looking up at him with such a pleading expression that he loses his will to fight. He told her once, when they were huddled together on the futon in her dorm room, her eyes swollen and red and the wounds from Neal still fresh - he had told her that he would never be one to disappoint her. It’s too much to see the look on her face now - like he’s already done so.

Her walls are still too high and she’s still too afraid to see that what they have is different. What they have is  _ special _ . He tries to gently push back, hoping to help her see, but -

But she has none of it, and in the end it’s her reveal that this week had merely been a test - one he failed to pass - that has him awkwardly shuffling in her doorway, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.

He looks down at his feet, unsure what to do. It’s not something he’s felt often, particularly around Emma, and shame burns at the tips of his ears. He never should have taken advantage of the situation last night, never should have pressed her for more when she so obviously wasn’t ready. But he had hoped that this week - that maybe she felt -

That perhaps she loved him as well.

“I’m going to - “ he hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just be downstairs.”

Her face crumbles, and he hates himself more. He’s not sure how he’s managed to ruin things so spectacularly over the course of twenty-four hours, but it seems he’s done it.

A new personal record, then.

“Killian - “

“I need a moment, Swan,” he tries to force a smile, but judging by the way her bottom lip trembles, he’s fallen woefully short. “If you don’t mind.”

He wants to promise her he’s not leaving, but the words stick in his throat, his embarrassment dwarfing any sensible thought. He’s loved her so completely for so long, it’s just -

He needs a moment.

-/-

Henry takes one look at his sprawled form on the couch, blanket from the end of Emma’s bed spread across his lap, and sighs heavily.

“She backtracked, didn’t she?”

“Die Hard is on,” Killian points in explanation to the television screen just as  John McClane begins his treacherous journey across  broken pieces of glass, bullets flying around him. There’s blood everywhere - chaos and mayhem - yet Bruce Willis soldiers on.

Killian thinks he knows a bit how he feels.

(“You’re so dramatic.”

“Illustrative,” he corrects with a tilt of his head. “Creative.”

“Dramatic.”)

“Yeah, okay,” Henry looks unamused, reaching for the remote and flicking off the tv. “She backtracked.”

Killian sighs, not even remotely interested in having a conversation about a fictional relationship when his chest feels as if it’s caving in on itself. Perhaps he should have invented a fight for them to have, a squabble over the way she leaves her wet towels in a clump on the floor or how he meticulously organized her book collection while bored the other night and apparently upset the balance of whatever system she had -

(“Swan, I apologize, but organizing by  _ color _ is hardly an efficient system for - “

“Oh my  _ god _ .”)

\- but he is exhausted.

“I merely wish to be free of your sisters thrashing for one evening,” he stretches his legs along the wide expanse of the couch. “Get a good night’s rest before tomorrow’s festivities.”

Henry eyes him critically for a moment, hands clasped loosely over his chest. “You know I know, right?”

“Know that your sister is a dreadful sleeper? Aye, I would assume you do.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “No, I mean, I know what you two are doing. This whole - “ he lifts his fingers into air quotes, eyebrows high on his forehead. “ - relationship thing.”

Killian blinks.

“I tried to convince her the other night, when we were out on the roof, you know?” Henry shakes his head. “I mean, I didn’t tell her I know but you guys are like, sickening to watch.”

Killian does his best to school his expression, painfully aware his cheeks are probably flushed a brilliant shade of red. “What are you going on about, lad?”

“I know Emma better than anyone,” Henry supplies, giving Killian a droll look. “Let’s not do this whole thing where you try and convince me it’s real because we don’t have time for that right now. If Emma is running scared like I think she is, we need to fix it.”

“It’s real to me,” Killian hates how defeated he sounds, averting his gaze down to his knees. There’s a hole in the blanket, frayed and worn, and he pokes his thumb through it. “It’s always been real to me.”

“I know, which is why,” Henry lobs a pillow at his head. “We need to fix it. Alright?”

Killian sighs. “I’m fairly certain she doesn’t want to fix anything, lad. This is her choice. I’ll respect it.”

Henry remains silent, the ticking of the clock with the little red birds handpainted on the edges the only sound between them. He counts them in his head, matches his breathing to it. Hopes maybe the pounding of his heart will follow.

“You know the first group home we were in, I got a lot of visits from parents hoping to adopt,” Killian’s eyes dart up at the quick change in subject. The group homes are not something Emma speaks of often, typically only when she’s in a reflective mood and in need of comfort - spoken in soft tones over a tub of ice cream passed between them. Or half in her boots off a bottle of tequila and slurring around her words with tears she refuses to shed shining bright in her eyes. Henry smiles, gesturing at his face. “Super cute kid and all.”

Killian smirks. “A pity then, that you’ve managed to lose all that innocent charm.”

“Shut up. Anyway, these couples would come in and we’d go get ice cream or sometimes they’d take me out to the toy store to pick something out. Every time I’d come back and I’d run up to where Emma was and ask her what she thought. Do you know what she told me every time?”

Killian huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “She’d tell you to go.”

Henry isn’t the only one to know Emma.

“Yup, every time. She’d tell me to go with them and forget about her. That she wanted me to be happy and loved,” Henry leans back in the faded armchair, crossing his legs at the ankles, a faraway look on his face. “Idiot didn’t realize I was already happy and loved. You see, sometimes Emma makes shitty choices, and it’s our job to tell her she’s wrong.”

He thinks of the look on her face when he gently pleaded with her, when he begged her in his own way to reconsider. He thinks of the panic and the way her eyelashes brushed the apples of her cheeks, her tears making her eyes seem impossibly large.

“I’ll not step away from her side, Henry,” Henry looks pointedly at the couch and Killian scratches roughly at the back of his head, frustrated. “Aye, tonight, maybe. But I just needed to gather my thoughts. I’ll - I will be her friend, as she’s requested. But I won’t - I’ll not force her into something she has no desire for.”

Henry’s face falls, his head tilted against the back of the couch.

“She loves you too, you know.”

“Aye,” Killian smiles, a forced thing that he’s sure is more a grimace than anything remotely pleasant. “Though she’s not said the words, I know she does. But she doesn’t - it’s not what she wants. I’m not what she wants.”

He shrugs, twisting his thumb around the blanket until it bites into his skin.

Voicing it out loud, well. It doesn’t hurt any less.

“Idiot doesn't realize she’s already happy and loved,” Henry mutters, reaching for the remote and flicking the television back on.

-/-

He rises with the dawn, sleep not frequenting his tossing and turning on the couch. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the look on her face just before he closed the door to her bedroom, her lips turned down and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, a crushing disappointment in her gaze he never thought would be directed at him.

(He sees the disappointment or - or the absolute rapture when she had been above him with her knees hugging his hips, her cheeks flushed pink and her breasts pressed tight to his chest. Mouth hot at his ear, pleading gasps with every arch of his hips.)

(He isn’t sure which is worse.)

It’s quick work to set the coffee and find two mugs in the cabinet above the sink. He hopes to cover the awkwardness between them with an offer of caffeine. Perhaps if she sees that nothing at all has changed, that he’s capable of hearing her and giving her the relationship she wants. Perhaps then she might -

\- but that’s a dangerous path to let his thoughts travel, and he’s given himself quite enough false hope for one week.

“You fit right in around here,” Mary Margaret jostles his spiraling thoughts as she glides into the kitchen, serene smile curling at the corners of her lips, pink fluffy robe wrapped right around her petite frame. “Already know where the good stuff is.”

She nods towards the can of coffee Emma had pulled from it’s hiding place yesterday, a secret blend apparently lifted off some coffee black market in this quiet and sleepy town. His face flushes and he shuffles his feet, his hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar, as it were. 

“Apologies, I just - “

“Nonsense, Killian,” Mary Margaret smiles, a comforting hand on his forearm. “You’ll be a part of this family soon enough, it only seems right you know where we keep the secret coffee.”

“Aye,” he does his best to keep his smile from faltering, his stomach dropping with the easy turn of phrase.  _ Family _ .

“Speaking of,” her grin widens as she shuffles across the kitchen to a tall cabinet just inside the front entryway, opening the door wide and rummaging about the top on the tips of her toes. A soft  _ a ha  _ slips from her lips and it’s with despair that he notes her hands clasped neatly around a small box as she turns, intent clear in the gleaming of her eyes.

She hands it to him carefully when she’s close enough, her encouraging smile and the gentle nod of her head urging his hands to open the worn wooden case.

It’s a compass, and a beautiful one at that. Cased in a dull, gleaming gold, it fits neatly in the palm of his hand when he lifts it out, the arrow spinning merrily as he holds it level.

“My father died when I was very young. I didn’t keep much, but there are some things,” he swallows heavily, not daring to look up, the tender emotion in her voice already too much to bear. “Emma and Henry both have items of his and I always said this would go to the man Emma chose to marry. I was hoping I might catch you alone before you two left.”

He swallows again, not quite trusting himself to speak. “I couldn’t possibly - “

“You can, and you will,” he finally looks up to find Mary Margaret smiling softly at him. “I know things started off a bit rocky, but I want you to know how happy I am that you’re Emma’s choice.”

“I’m flattered, truly, but - “

But if this compass is meant for the man Emma chooses, it should certainly not belong to him.

The words stick like ash in his throat.

“It’s yours,” Mary Margaret gently nudges his shoulder, and his fingers close around the smooth edges of the compass. He will return it to Emma as soon as he goes upstairs with their coffee, and she can bring it back to her mother when she breaks the news. He still has no idea of what she intends to say to explain their breakup, and the idea of it causes his stomach to twist uncomfortably. “Now, I’m sure my daughter is somewhere waiting for her coffee. I won’t keep you.”

Mary Margaret turns to leave the kitchen, fingertips swiping under her eyes discreetly.

“Thank you,” he supplies, hoping the way his voice grates over the words conveys how very much her gesture means to him. “I don’t - my family, they’re - “

He means to say he has no one left, that he’s been alone ever since Emma came barreling into his life with her mean right hook and her soft smile.

“Hush,” Mary Margaret shakes her head, tears filling her eyes once more. “You have a place here now. With us.”

He nods, swallowing tightly.

“Thank you.”

-/-

Will he still have a place, he wonders, when he’s seen as the one that breaks Emma’s heart?

-/-

She’s nestled in the middle of the bed when he slips through her bedroom door, her hands fisted in the sleeves of his sweatshirt where they hang too long over her knuckles. She peers up at him only to look quickly back at her hands, and the compass sits a bit heavier in his pocket.

Later. He’ll return it later.

“Can - “ She sighs, fidgeting with the raggedy cuffs, twisting them around and around. “Can we just - “

“I brought you coffee,” he cuts her off gently, handing her the mug. It’s not one of the dwarf ones, thank the gods, but it’s equally cheerful with a dusting of snowflakes painted on pale blue ceramic. The look she gives him can only be described as pleadingly grateful, and he bites his tongue against his sigh. He can pretend, if that’s what she wants. “It’s the good stuff you hide away in the cabinet. Your mother found me with it, but she didn’t find the necessity to call in the town Sheriff.”

A smile curls at her lips. “Lucky you.”

He returns her smile, only having to fake it a little bit. “Please, your father loves me.”

It’s wrong thing to say, it would seem, judging by the way her eyes quickly dart away and her hand begins to tremble around the handle of her mug. His own gaze finds the floorboards and he supposes this is as good a time as any to -

“Yeah,” she replies, voice sad and small in a way he hasn’t heard before. “Yeah, he does.”

It sounds a little bit like  _ I do, too _ but that’s just - that’s the kind of thought he can no longer allow himself. She’s made her choice. He needs to -

He needs to let it go.

“We should get ready for the day, yes? I’m sure your mum will be bustling us out the door in no time.”

Emma nods, shaking herself from whatever path her own thoughts have traveled down. He makes for the closet, trying not to let himself linger over the way her sweaters look hanging neatly next to his own. He grabs for a flannel and drapes it over his arm, pulls a pair of jeans from where they’re folded at his feet.

Before, he would have felt fine stripping down to his boxers and changing in front of her, probably make some quip about her inability to keep her eyes off him and delight in the color that would no doubt stain her cheeks pink. But he’s not sure it would be welcome now, their encounter the other night making him feel off-kilter in the worst of ways.

He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

Folding his clothes to his chest, he figures perhaps some space is something they both could benefit from.

“I’ll be back in a tic, love,” he nods towards the door.

“Where are you going?” She tries to hide it, but he knows her well enough to hear the tinge of suspicion there, the fine threads of fear stringing along her words. Bloody insufferable woman still fears he’s going to leave her behind.

As if he could.

“Just to change in the washroom. My toothbrush has gone woefully underused.”

She nods, shoulders relaxing. 

“I’ll make sure my mom doesn't come to steal her coffee back.”

The way she smiles up at him, clad in his too-big sweatshirt, hair a messy halo around her face - it almost feels normal.

Almost.

-/-

He angles his face beneath the cold spray of the shower long enough for his fingertips to go numb, hoping it will ground him and keep his mind from wandering back to the way Emma looked when he had his hand down the front of her sleep shorts. The way her mouth trembled when he curled his fingers. How she choked out his name when he bit down on her breast.

It’s only made more difficult when he comes out of the bathroom to find her clad in the indecently tight jeans that hug the flare of her hips, the white sweater that exposes the jut of her collarbones. He’s always been attracted to her, that’s certainly never been a question. But now that he knows what she feels like,  _ sounds _ like, he -

“Ready?” She asks, gaze flitting over his face like she’s searching for something. He nods silently, not quite trusting himself to open his mouth and not blurt out that he loves her. That he wants her to love him, too.

He can hear her family at the bottom of the steps - the stomp of boots and the rustle of jackets as they get themselves ready for the festival. Mary Margaret hasn’t quite stopped her mad circuit around the first floor of the house, checking and double checking all the necessary supplies, ignoring David’s placating tones as he tries to calm her.

Emma holds out her hand and he takes it, not hesitating to lace his fingers through hers. It’s a perfect fit, just like always, and he lets his thumb rub over the braided metal of the ring that sits pretty on her left hand.

If they only have today left to pretend, he damn well intends to savor it.

-/-

“You look beautiful,” he tells her when they’re within earshot of her parents, leaning forward and brushing a kiss along her jaw. She smiles and squeezes his hand and it’s - it’s almost like it’s not pretend.

Almost.

-/-

She lets go of his hand in the car, curls her body away from his until she’s pressed tight against the window. He flexes his hand and grips his knee instead, and tells himself it’s better this way.

-/-

“You did a good job with the lights,” she comments as they stroll hand and hand down the main drag of the town, their steps leisurely as the music from the band swells and dims, autumn breeze whipping along the tents. It’s lovely, this festival Mary Margaret has concocted, and he feels a small fissure of pride that he had a hand in it. It’s been quite some time since he’s been a part of something - outside the bar, of course - and it’s just -

\- it’s nice.

He tugs her hand until her shoulder bumps his. “Do try and sound less surprised, love,” she rolls her eyes at him and he grins. “I had a hand in hanging the lights in the bar, I’ll have you know.”

“And they’ve been crooked for years.”

“Have not.”

“Get some eyes, buddy.”

He doesn't know how, but they’ve managed to slip further into one another’s space during their little argument, his face tilted down and her nose brushing his jaw, her fingers grasping at his belt loop as they sway together. His hand has found it’s way into the hair that peeks out from beneath her cap and he’s so overcome with the need to kiss her that his breath hitches with it. It’s painful, this sort of pretend.

They seem to notice their proximity in the same moment, springing apart as if burned, the air between them thick with tension. It’s never been like this, he notes. Not in the ten years he’s known her.

He hates it.

“Uh, I’m going to get some cider,” she curls her hands deep into her pockets, nodding towards a booth tucked away in the corner. “Want some?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m quite alright, love.”

It’s a lie. He’s not alright, won’t be alright. He feels as if he’s barely stitched together, actually, but he’s not sure that’s the response she’s looking for.

“Be right back.”

He watches her walk away, how her shoulders hunch tight. He gone and made a right mess of things, he has.

“Bloody buggering fuck.”

“That sounds promising.” 

He fights the urge to repeat the exclamation, instead turning on his heel and not bothering to mask his irritation. Walsh just grins at him, nodding in the direction of Emma.

“Tell me, when she’s done with you, you think I’ll get another - “

His hands are fisted in Walsh’s jacket before he can so much as  _ think _ the end of his sentence, his mouth curled into a snarl. The irritation flickers hot into hostility, curling along his spine and trembling in his arms.

He won’t have Walsh speak of Emma as if she is a thing to be traded.

Seemingly unperturbed, Walsh continues, “How does it make you feel, to have her run away from you with your ring on her finger?” He jostles Killian’s grip, stepping back and smoothing down the front of his wool jacket. Killian wants to smack the look from his face. “You think you’re different, unlike all the rest. And yet, she’s still running.” 

Walsh grins, slapping him on the shoulder. “We’re more alike that you think, my friend.”

Killian bristles at that. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” his eyes dart behind Killian, smile settling with a nod. “Nice chat, Killian.”

He turns and disappears into the crowd, Killian’s hands still clenched in fists at his sides. One swift punch would do the man a world of good, he muses. Perhaps a -

“Hey, you alright?”

No, he’s not alright.

“Aye, love. Just fine.”

-/-

“What did he say to you?”

“Just a quip about the weather, darling. I assure you.”

She peers up at him through her lashes, the ring on her finger glinting in the sun where she has her hand wrapped around her cider. He looks away quickly.

“Okay.”

-/-

He does his best to enjoy the rest of the day, put Walsh’s words out of his mind and not focus on how their plane is set to leave in a couple hours and he has no idea what their relationship will be like when they land back home. Uncertainty is not something he’s ever had to associate with Emma, and as the sun begins to dip in the sky, he finds his mood following a similar descent.

“Do you guys really need to leave tonight?” Mary Margaret smiles up at them from her place tucked into David’s side, her cheeks flushed with the cold. The festival had been declared a rousing success not fifteen minutes prior, a steady influx of townsfolk coming by to greet their new Mayor and thank her for the festivities. “We’ve loved having you here.”

Killian curls his arm tighter around Emma in response, his voice thick. “It’s been a delight.”

(It’s been perfect. It’s been everything he’s ever wanted. It’s been a home and happiness and pies on the kitchen counter and Emma’s hand in his.)

Emma nods her head, hair catching on his beard. “We wish we could stay, mom, really.”

( _ Really _ .)

Mary Margaret reaches for her hand, squeezing once, her eyes drifting up to catch Killian’s gaze. “We’ll see you at Christmas?”

He finds himself unable to respond. Luckily, Emma does so for him. 

“We’ll see.”

-/-

It’s David and Henry who take them to the airport, Henry suspiciously quiet in the front seat as he fiddles with the radio dial until Christmas music fills the cab of the car. There’s a brief squabble over  _ too early _ and  _ not early enough _ that dissolves into laughter and he just -

He wants this. All of it. Emma and her fingers toying with the cuff of his sleeve and her head against his shoulder as her father drives them to the airport and her brother teasing them from the front seat. But instead he has Emma holding herself away from him, him holding himself away from Emma, and Henry shooting him painfully obvious looks in the rearview mirror. 

The tiny airport is rather abandoned when they arrive and they have the luxury of extended goodbyes. David offers him a sturdy handshake and a mild threat, but not even the shoddy attempt at violence is enough to lift his spirits.

Henry, however.

Henry pulls him into a fierce hug, his scrawny arms surprisingly strong as he pulls tight and refuses to let go. Emma arches an eyebrow over Henry’s shoulder and Killian finds his own raising in response, quite confused as to what’s caused the sudden emotion.  

“Don’t give up on her,” he mutters into Killian’s ear. “Please don’t.”

Killian pulls back, wishing he could reassure the lad. He won’t give up on Emma. But Emma, it seems, has given up on him.

He deflects, reaching for something that doesn’t hurt quite so bad. “I’m sure we’ll face each other in battle soon enough.”

Henry’s smile is sad. “Yeah.”

-/-

He’s embarrassed, more than anything. He feels like the schoolboy who mustered his courage to ask the prettiest lass to the dance only to be denied and denied soundly.

His embarrassment only escalates when they stand on the opposite side of security, the silence between them deafening.

“Oh,” she exclaims, fingers tugging at Liam’s ring on her finger. She slips it off and hands it back to him, placing it carefully in his palm. It’s still warm from her skin, and he has no desire whatsoever to put it back on his finger. It’s hers, as far as he’s concerned. Since he met her, it’s been hers. “Suppose I should be giving that back.”

It’s a herculean effort not to grab her hand and put the ring back on, but he resists. No need in encouraging her to run away faster.

“I have something to return to you, as well.” He shifts his backpack to one shoulder, reaching into the front pocket for the box Mary Margaret had presented him with. Emma’s curiosity shifts to a disheartening mask of pity as soon as she realizes, and he shakes his head quickly as if he can cast the look from her face. He doesn't want her to look at him like that, especially right now. “Your mum gave it to me this morning. If you could just - “

He releases the box as soon as her fingers wrap around it, scratching rough at the back of his neck. He almost doesn’t want to ask, but the situation demands it. He’s had a lovely week with her family and he doesn’t want them to think - he doesn’t want to be the villain.

“If you could be kind, yeah? About our breakup? I don’t want them to think I’m the type of person to hurt you.”

( _ I would never hurt you,  _ he wants to say.  _ I will never hurt you. _ )

“Oh,” her eyes are surprised, hands clenching tighter about the box. “Oh, of course. Killian, I’m not going to - I wouldn’t do that to you. It’ll be a - a mutual thing.”

Her cheeks flush with the words. He nods.

“Thank you.”

She shifts her own bag around and places the compass carefully inside. He curls his hand into a fist until the ring bites into his skin.

“Should we go to our gate?”

“Uh, actually,” she blinks up at him, and he almost changes his mind. “I’ll meet you there, yeah?”

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Sure thing. I’ll just - “ She forces a smile. “I’ll see you in a few.”

“Grand, love.”

-/-

The tiny bar is just as deserted as the arrivals gate was out front, and he slides onto one of the bar stools with a heavy sigh. Turning to drink to settle his mind and lighten his heart hasn't been a habit for quite some time, though he supposes the occasion calls for it.

“Rum, please,” he asks, and the bartender makes it a double, telling him he looks sad enough to earn it. It’s not the finest praise, but the rum warms his belly and he can almost pretend it reaches his heart.

He’s gotten quite good at pretending, after all.

Two turns to three and three to six. By the time his phone buzzes in his pocket, Emma wondering just where he got off to, he’s well and truly plastered. He places some folded bills on the bar top and tilts off his seat with as much coordination as a sodding blind cow in a rainstorm, stumbling to the gate.

Emma’s awaiting him when he arrives, her eyebrows knit in concern. She looks so pretty when she’s worrying after him. He wishes to trace his thumb over her forehead until those lines disappear.

But he can’t do that anymore.

“You alright there, sailor?”

He grunts, stumbling into one of the charging posts, Emma righting him with her hands curled around his bicep. It’s a bit too much, right now, and he pulls himself from her grasp, ignoring the hurt when it flashes in those beautiful green eyes of hers.

“Just fine, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! I know that was a lot of angst, but I promise the light is coming soon. :) Only a couple chapters left in this bad boy.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for letting this story go on without an update for so long! I've had quite a few life events over the past couple months, and my writing fell to the side. Thank you thank you for being so patient and lovely. After this chapter, there are just two more.

**Chapter 12**

She’s seen the box before, hidden away at the top of the cabinet in the front hall beneath stacks of old scarves and horribly underused knitting needles. Weathered edges with rusted hinges, she remembers how carefully Mary Margaret had lifted it from it’s perch, a soft smile curling her lips and her eyes wistful. 

“It belonged to my father,” she had said. “It can be yours, if you’d like.” 

She had been given her choice of family heirlooms to select from - the compass merely the latest in a long line of odds and ends pulled from various hiding spots around the house. It was the first time - well, it was the first time anyone had ever trusted her with something so precious. Something so important and valued. 

She remembers tracing her fingers along the edges of the burnished brass, watching the needle bob gently back and forth as she turned the box this way and that. 

“It’s beautiful,” she pressed her thumb into the metal and pretended she could still feel the heat of someone else’s touch. A lifetime of memories. A family, maybe. 

_ Her  _ family. 

It’s a little bit more weathered when Killian pulls it from his backpack, but familiar all the same. Killian hands it to her, careful to keep his gaze on her hands instead of her face, an imperceptible tremble in his fingers when he scratches behind his ear. Her stomach drops to her toes, and it’s just - 

“If you could be kind, yeah? About our breakup? I don’t want them to think I’m the type of person to hurt you.” 

She blinks, surprised. She hadn’t thought about what she might say to her parents or how she could possibly explain. Her mom will have questions, she knows. Her father, too. David will probably break out the rifle he keeps in the hall closet and make idle threats in the background during one of their skype calls. Probably threaten to fly out there and give Killian a piece of his mind. 

(“Please, your father loves me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he does.”)

She hadn’t thought of how long it’s been since Killian has had a family of his own. A place to spend the holidays and people to surround himself with. Someone to mother after him and make sure he ate enough. Someone to wake up early and watch the game with him, rum slipped into their coffee and gentle companionship in the silence stretched between.

She can’t take that away from him. 

“Oh, of course. Killian, I’m not going to - “ she swallows around the words, grips the box in her hands so tight the edges bite into her palms. “I wouldn’t do that to you. It’ll be a - a mutual thing.”

A mutual thing. 

Just like the decision to be friends. To pretend like everything's normal. 

_ Mutual. _

He nods, a smile that looks more like a grimace twisting his lips. “Thank you.”

-/-

There was a time - after Milah, after his brother - where he drowned himself in liquor instead of feeling. She would trudge into his apartment to find the blinds still drawn with bottles littering the floor, Killian draped haphazardly across the couch. She would glance her fingertips gently against his brow in an effort to wake him and - it was just - the worst of it was - 

Every single time he would jolt awake, blue eyes impossibly wide, body curling in on itself even as he levered himself up and off the faded, misshapen cushions. Like she had doused him in water or pressed a live wire against his spine. His breath would stutter on his lips and she would watch him slowly come to realization. 

(“That - it wasn’t a dream, was it?” 

“No, Killian. It wasn’t.”)

She’s reminded of it when he finds her at the gate, half stumbling into a charging post and pulling his arm from her grasp when she tries to right him. He avoids her entirely as they wait in line to board, curling against the window and pulling his hood up as soon as they’re seated. 

(The two of them, nestled together on her beat up futon, blankets pulled tight over their shoulders and his nose digging into her arm where he’s pressed against her. 

“I don’t have any family left.” 

Her hand slipping into his. “You have me.”)

(He could have  _ more _ .)

It hurts, but she supposes she has no one to blame but herself. 

“Does your boyfriend want something to eat?” 

The stewardess eyes Killian warily in his heap against the window, and Emma bites the inside of her cheek. It would be stupid to cry, after everything. 

It would be stupid to cry, when she’s done this to herself. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she whispers. 

-/-

Still, she gets him a sandwich. 

“No mustard,” she explains when she hands it over to him. “But I traded my trail mix with the guy across the aisle and he gave some up.” 

He blinks blearily at her, fingers brushing against hers on the cheap plastic that wraps, frankly, questionable looking bread. “That was very kind of you, Swan.” 

Her cheeks flare hot and she busies her hands with the little bag of peanuts they gave out not too long ago, her thumb picking at the metallic edge. His voice is always grittier when he’s been drinking, his accent dragging along the curves of the words. 

“It’s just mustard,” she mutters. 

He sighs, leans his forehead back against the window. 

“Aye, I suppose it is.” 

-/-

She’s never been good with words. Even worse with apologies. 

How do you even start to say: 

_ Sorry, I’m just afraid to try because it might ruin everything and it already feels like I’ve ruined everything.  _

With mustard, she guesses. 

-/-

Mutual. 

She watches him eat his sandwich, shoulders hunched, a perfect inch of space between his knee and hers. 

Yeah, okay.

-/-

Before their trip, they had planned on him crashing at her place when they got back. A long flight, a late landing - it didn’t make sense for him to get a separate Uber from the airport if she could just give him a ride in the morning. But now, she’s doesn’t - she isn’t - 

“Our ride will be here in four minutes,” Killian mutters, the lines on his face harsh in the eerie blue glow from his phone. “A Ford Focus is hardly the larger car I requested, but at least we won’t find ourselves stranded in your death trap.”

She smiles, relieved. Making fun of her car is low-hanging fruit, but it’s the first time since Storybrooke that an actual smile has quirked the corners of his lips. 

Nevermind that her fingers itch to trace it. 

She rocks back on her heels, closing her fist tighter around her bookbag strap. “For a man who routinely explains his distaste for the big brands, you’ve got no love for my - “ 

“Death trap,” he cuts off, reaching for her bag as a lime green car screeches to a halt in front of them. Killian stares at it and arches an eyebrow, and she hides her smile against the collar of her jacket. 

-/-

She has to tuck herself against him in the back of the car to fit, the seat in front of them digging into her knees and his arm propped up behind her head to accommodate them both. He tenses and then breathes out slowly through his nose, his thumb catching in her hair and staying there, tapping gently at the base of her skull when she tilts her head back. 

In Storybrooke, she would have leaned further into him. Maybe brushed her lips against his neck and smiled into his skin. 

She sighs and looks out the window.

-/-

It doesn’t help to keep reminding herself how things could be different. 

It doesn’t help to think of how she could loop her fingers about his wrist and tug until his fingers interlace with hers if she wanted - that she could press up on her toes until her nose nudges his chin and he stares down at her, all hooded eyes and thick eyelashes. That slow, secret smile of his tugging at his bottom lip until she leaned up to catch it between her teeth.

It doesn’t help that as soon as they make it back to her apartment, he asks if he can take a shower, wanting to wash away the stale smell of the plane. She immediately thinks of the lines of ink on his chest. How the water might dip and pool in the hollow of his throat before following the curves of the waves that dance over the broad expanse of his chest, the ship that wraps around his side and licks at the top of his hip. 

She lays in her bed and stares at the ceiling as the couch creaks and groans just outside her bedroom, Killian making himself comfortable with a huff and a sigh. It’s nice to have central heat again, but she misses how it felt to have her toes pressed up against his shin. His beard catching in her hair. 

“You have to stop,” she whispers, pressing the palms of her hands into her eyes until she sees spots. She breathes out and shifts on her side, closing her eyes tighter when she hears Killian do the same on the couch. 

(Imagines him curling up behind her instead, the press of his palm to the flat of her belly.)

She just needs to - she needs to let it go. 

-/-

This was her choice but it feels like her mistake and she doesn’t - she can’t - 

She needs him, even if it means this - stilted and awkward with a note waiting on her counter when she wakes up in the morning in his ridiculously loopy and ornate handwriting, letting her know he had to head out early and intercept a shipment for Granny. 

She stares hard at the pot of coffee he started before he left, the blanket he left folded neatly on the arm of her couch. 

Because even when it’s like this, at least he’s still  _ here _ . 

-/-

She has to remind herself of that when she goes to the bar that night, her heart somewhere in her throat as she sits on a stool and waits for him to find her. It isn’t like him to not greet her when she swings through the door. To not make a comment about the state of her hair or the lack of snow tires on her bug. 

He squeezes her arm gently when he finally emerges from the back and passes her at the bar counter, an apologetic look shot over his shoulder. 

“My apologies, Swan. We’re just really crowded tonight.” 

She nods, biting at her bottom lip. It’s not like they had plans or anything. She just dropped by after bagging her latest skip, hoping maybe she could pull him away and have him give her the rundown on the latest beers. Maybe pilfer some free wings and meet him at Ruby’s after. 

“That’s okay,” she begins. “We’ll just - “ 

“Raincheck,” he mouths, already leaning under the bar for the spare bottle of jack and darting his gaze to the pretty brunette spilling herself across the tabletop. 

She nods.

“Yeah, okay.” 

-/-

He texts her later, when she’s drowning her sorrows in the growler he left in her fridge and the mint chocolate chip she doesn’t even like, but keeps stocked for the nights when he comes over with pizza and six-packs. It’s a new low, even for her, but there’s no one here to see her mope. 

_ Killian Jones: Apologies, love. I didn’t intend to leave you hanging. _

She taps her thumb against the screen, considers writing  _ It’s alright, I didn’t intend to break your heart. _

_...or mine.  _

Instead she settles on a string of emojis that vaguely translate into  _ no problem, I’ll see you later this week _ while she stops herself from asking if he got the brunette’s number. 

-/-

Two days go by as she buries herself in work, intent on avoiding the bar and the sad set of his smile as he looks at her, everything she could have had dancing in the back of her head as she balances on a stool. She’s just returned home from a useless stakeout when a knock sounds at her door, Killian on the other side with his hands clenched tight around a box of pizza when she swings it open. 

“You okay?” she asks first, because his hair is standing on end and his eyes are just a bit too wide, feet shuffling back and forth as he shifts his weight. She hasn’t heard from him other than the odd meme or update on Will’s antics and he seems - 

“Do you remember junior year? When I made you a promise?” 

\- he seems a bit frazzled. 

She drags a hand through her hopelessly tangled hair, stomach swooping down low. She remembers curling against him on her cheap couch, a heavy pressure behind her eyes and a whispered plea on her lips. 

She nods. 

He mirrors her nod. “You asked me not to leave you and I promised you I wouldn’t. The way I’ve been acting since we’ve returned, it’s not - I don’t - “ He shakes his head hard, blue eyes burning bright in the dim light of her apartment hall. “I’ve let my own disappointments shape the way I’ve treated you and for that, I apologize.” 

She shakes her head. “No, Killian, I’m - “ 

“You are not to apologize for the way you feel, Swan.” He shifts his gaze to the floor, boot knocking where the frame of her door hangs crooked. He tried to fix it, once. Even brought over his toolbox from his boat to try and get it to hang right. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go back to the way things were before I went and mucked it up.” 

She blinks, at a loss. It’s exactly everything she wanted, but - 

But when she nods and lets him into her apartment, handing him a beer before collapsing next to him on the couch, it’s just - 

It’s the same as it was before, two friends sharing a pizza on the couch. 

She’s not supposed to apologize for the way she feels, but what about - what about the part where she wants more. 

What about the part where she’s too afraid to love him the way he deserves. 

-/-

It feels softer in her apartment, with just the television on and her feet tucked under Killian’s leg. Muted and still, wrapped in the extra blankets she keeps in the chest just below the window, his fingers idling with the bare skin of her ankle as they let the silence expand between them. It’s easy and comfortable in a way it hasn’t been since that night in her parent’s kitchen - since the aged whiskey in her bedroom floorboards made her a hell of a lot more brave. 

“Killian?” 

He turns his head at her whisper, face cast half in shadow, half in moonlight that drifts in through the curtains, palm slipping against her leg until it cups just behind her knee. His hands are warm, gentle as he shifts against her and dips his head, her stomach flipping pleasantly down low as she shifts to accommodate him. It feels like floating, a bit, trapped in this moment with him. Where they don’t need words or explanations. 

He’s waiting for a cue from her, she can tell, so she sifts her fingers through the soft hair just behind his ear. Tugs until he makes that choked noise in the back of his throat and brushes his lips against hers. They linger there in the space between breathing until it isn’t enough. Until she pushes up on her elbows and he tucks himself between her splayed thighs, mouth hungry as he sets about devouring her. 

“I’ve thought about this,” she whispers, as his hand slips in the back of her sweatpants, palm rough as he cups her ass and pulls her hips up to meet his. He chuckles, soft and rough. 

“Aye, me as well.” He leans up on the palm of his hand and smiles down at her, a lock of his hair falling over his face until she smoothes it back. She cups his cheek, and he tilts his face, pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand. “Perhaps this time you’ll allow me to see all of you.” 

He licks at his bottom lip as he moves his hand to her chest, hooking his thumb in the hem of her shirt and dragging it up until it sits above her bare breasts. He breathes in deep through his nose, muttering something that sounds like  _ beautiful _ under his breath, a blush lighting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

“Want to take me to the bedroom, sailor?” 

He nods, fingertips dragging along her bare skin until he can hook them in the hem of her sweat pants. 

“I do, but first I think,” he slips his hand lower, down between her legs, and they both groan when he feels how wet she is. “First I think I’ll have you come undone under my hand.” 

-/-

She wakes with a gasp, sweat gathering between her breasts and in the hollow of her throat. She swears she can still feel his touch burning against her skin, in the tips of her breasts and the hollow ache between her thighs. The television casts its harsh white light over the room despite Killian having left hours ago, their pizza packed neatly away in the fridge with a post-it reminder to take out the trash in the morning.

“Fuck,” she whispers, shifting her legs uncomfortably. It would be easy if the only thing she craved was the sex. But it’s all the other things, too - the way he looked at her with light dancing behind those beautiful blue eyes, balanced above her. The way he pressed his lips to the palm of her hand and chased her smile with one of his own. 

She kicks off the blanket twisted around her legs and groans, closing her eyes tight as she tries to conjure the whisps of the dream. There’s no way she can sleep now, not when she  _ wants  _ so desperately. Her fingers ghost between her legs and she shudders, his name bitten out between clenched teeth. 

Touching herself to the thought of Killian is nothing new, she can admit that now, but this is the first time she’s so determined to get the set of his jaw right. The way he shudders and groans and rolls his hips when she gasps beneath him. 

“Fuck,” she whispers again, pressing her fingers harder, circling tighter. She comes undone in a matter of moments, his face flashing behind her closed eyes. 

She’s sure this is not what he meant when he said he wanted things to go back to the way they were. 

She’s sure it’s not what she wants, either. 

-/-

“I fucked up.” 

Ruby glances at her from the far end of the diner, hands busy with a stack of precariously balancing coffee mugs.

“I’d say so. You haven’t come in here once in the week you’ve been back to give me all the delicious details.” 

“No, Ruby,” her voice cracks and breaks, splintering at the edges. “I really fucked up.” 

Ruby abandons the stack of cups, hands brushing along the front of her apron. “Does this have anything to do with why Killian has made at least twelve different types of beer since you guys have been back?”

“He has?” 

Ruby nods, lips twisting down in a frown. “Granny caught him asleep in the brew room the other day, goggles still on his face.”

She thinks of him alone at the brewery, hunkering down in the chair he keeps in the corner, feet propped up on one of the extra crates. The red lines that always press into his skin when he wears the safety goggles for too long. She didn’t realize he had been putting in more hours at the bar. She had convinced herself rather thoroughly that the reason he hadn’t stopped by her apartment again was that he was checking in on his boat. Maybe catching up on chores around his place. 

(Nevermind that he hardly ever did those things without her. That he always found an excuse to be in her space, before.) 

Her hands tremble as she reaches for a napkin to busy herself with, and Ruby’s frown deepens. 

“I’m going to make you a hot chocolate, and then we’re going to sit in a booth and you’re going to tell me everything. Okay?” 

Emma nods. “Okay.” 

Maybe getting it all out in the open will help. Maybe Ruby will be able to - 

“Oh, wow,” Ruby leans back against the booth, reaching for Emma’s mug and taking a long and considering sip. She arches an eyebrow and traces her fingernail along the tabletop when she puts the mug back down, tongue licking at the corner of her brilliant red lips. “You really fucked up.” 

“I know.” 

“I do have some clarifying questions, though,” Ruby leans forward on her elbows. “When you say dry humped on the floor, do you mean like, no under the clothes action at all?” 

Her cheeks flare hot, the memory of his hand between her legs making arousal pull tight at her gut. The thought that she got herself off to exactly that last night causing her to stutter. “Uh, that’s not - “ 

“Oh my  _ god _ , this is amazing.” 

Emma lets her forehead drop to the tabletop. She had hoped for some clarity from Ruby, not twenty questions about how it felt to have Killian press her down into the floor. The bite of his jeans against the inside of her thighs and his breath ragged in her ear. 

(It felt good. 

Really,  _ really  _ good.)

“I mean, all that sexual tension,” Emma keeps her forehead on the table as Ruby continues. “Like ten years of it, all bursting at once. God, I’d pay money to watch.” 

Emma tilts her face up, and Ruby shrugs. “Not in a weird way. Like a  _ scientific _ way, you know? You two are a god damned social experiment.” 

“It’s not about the - sex,” she begins, voice shaking. “I just miss him. He’s right here but I  _ miss _ him and it was only a week. How can I miss something we only had for a week?” 

Ruby reaches for her hand, squeezing once. “It’s been much longer than a week, sweetie.” 

-/-

She waits until she gets home to call Henry, hoping the cake batter ice cream she has hidden in the back of her fridge will help her give her the necessary fortitude for the conversation. She’s two bites in, two rings too far gone to hang up, when he answers. 

“I hope to god this is a come to jesus moment for you about how you feel about Killian.” 

She sinks further down into her couch cushions, slipping the spoon back in her mouth. 

“Hello to you too, kid.” 

Henry sighs. “Can we cut the bullshit and get right to it? It sounds like you already have ice cream, anyway.” 

She peers down at the phone in her hand, wondering if she accidentally FaceTimed him instead. 

“You always eat ice cream when you’re having a life crisis,” he explains. 

“Sometimes I also just eat ice cream.”

“But more than likely, it’s because you’re upset about something.” He sighs, voice suddenly gentle on the other end of the phone. “We talked about this, Emma. He’s not going to let you down.” 

She picks at the label on the edge of her ice cream, eyes suddenly, stupidly filling with tears. “Yeah, I know. But what if - what if I’m the one to let him down?”

“Well as someone who has loved you for a very long time, I can confirm that you’ve never let me down.”

She clears her throat as discreetly as she can, choking on a laugh. “I remember you had a very different opinion when I bought only trefoils instead of the samoas you wanted from that girl scout troop.” 

“Who only buys shortbread?” She laughs, propping her boots up on the coffee table, knocking askew Killian’s artful array of Atlantic magazines. That, more than anything, gets her to sober. How bits of his life are tucked away carefully here with hers. That before now, this moment, she had hardly even noticed. 

“Seriously though, Emma. You two are perfect for each other, despite your apparent need to act out domestic scenarios.” 

She sputters. “What are you - I mean - that was all - “ 

“Fake, and I know it so don’t bother to try and convince me otherwise. Honestly, I’ve known you my entire life. It’s a bit insulting that you think I would fall for that.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Mom and Dad did.” 

“Yeah, well. They want you to be happy. And it’s very clear how happy you are with Killian, so I think they overlooked the sheer looks of panic you were making every time he left you on your own. 

“I wasn’t - “ 

“You were. I watched you twist yourself all around because you have this ridiculous idea that you are not meant to be loved. I hate to break it to you, but you already are. And there’s nothing you can do about it, okay? Just,” he sighs, and she remembers when they were little how he used to press his forehead to hers. His messy brown hair tickling against her skin and making her smile. “You already told Killian you didn’t want to try, right?” 

She doesn’t bother asking how he knows that, just nods silently, a muttered  _ yes _ under her breath when she realizes he can’t actually see her. 

“And I’d bet that not-so-significant sum in my savings that he’s still bringing you dinner and checking in on you during stakeouts, right?” 

She thinks of the pizza in her fridge, the fresh box of granola bars she found in the center console of the bug this morning. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. 

“Yes.” 

“So he’s not going to suddenly disappear on you if things don’t work out. They’ve already not worked out, and he’s still by your side.”

She blinks, the pressure in her chest lessening slightly. She scoops some more ice cream into her mouth, and wishes not for the first time Henry chose a school closer to her so she could hug him in person. 

“When did you become the adult?”

She can hear his smile through the phone. “Age six. You encouraged me to steal the mac and cheese, and I turned you into the shop keeper.” 

She laughs, long and loud. “I forgot about that, you little shit.” 

They lapse into silence, the low murmur of the television audible on his end of the phone. She smiles when she realizes he’s watching the same episode of  _ Deadliest Catch  _ that’s on her DVR, the miles and miles between them feeling like nothing at all. 

“Just try to be happy, would you?” 

She breathes in deep through her nose. Out again. 

“Yeah, okay. I think I might.” 

-/-

She finishes her ice cream and slips on her jacket, intent on finding him at the bar before she loses her nerve. Her heart matches the beat of her boots against the pavement, an unsteady staccato that lodges in her throat the closer she gets to the neon red swinging sign. The windows fogged, the string lights dancing merrily behind the glass - it looks like a fairy tale. She exhales hard through her nose, watching the cloud of white twist it’s way into the night sky, trying to cling to the feeling of his hand in hers. 

(Warm flannel pressed against her skin, his hair tickling her chin. 

His laughter low in the dark stillness of her bedroom, the string of his hoodie dragging against her chest. 

Marshmallow clinging to his bottom lip, his hand heavy on her waist and his knees tucked behind hers.

Pumpkin pie and bacon that’s crisp just the way she likes it. Pancakes with cinnamon and BLTs with avocado.)

(It’s a hell of a thing to be brave for.)

He’s not behind the bar when she swings her way in, but Granny takes one look at her face and grins wide, nodding towards the back. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” she mutters, scrubbing hard at a stubborn stain on the bar top. “Get that boy away from the brewing equipment.” 

There isn’t much of a crowd tonight, just a couple of the regulars that nod at her as she passes. She doesn’t concern herself with the pretty brunettes or the college co-eds with their low cut tank tops. Just focuses on the door that leads to the back, and the dark mess of hair she can see through the little window. 

Her breath catches a bit when she sees him, sleeves rolled to his elbows and safety glasses pushed back to his forehead, cheeks stained pink with exertion. His hair sticks out in wild clumps and his forearms strain as he shifts the kegs around, the screech of metal against metal masking her arrival. It smells - well, it smells terrible - some sort of concoction bubbling merrily away in one of the fermentors. It’s like that time with Will and the caramel cookie flavor gone wrong, except worse. More - 

“Blueberry,” Killian shouts over the noise with a shrug, smile a bit manic as he continues to rearrange. “Thought I’d give it a shot.” 

She thinks back to the greenhouse, his mouth so close to hers and lips stained blue. Her cheeks flush. “Oh.” 

He stops his movement and peers up at her, brushing his hands against the front of his jeans. “Is everything alright, love?” 

And it’s his concern that confirms it for her. The way his eyebrows pull down low and he reaches out to cup her elbow, draw her closer so he can duck his face down and trace the lines of her face with his gaze. She doesn’t resist the urge to trace the swell of his cheekbone, the dark circles that linger just under his eyes. 

He shudders under her touch, eyebrows pulled impossibly tighter. 

“Emma? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” she smiles, shaking her head and stepping out of his grasp. He swallows hard and shifts back onto his heels, slipping his hands into his back pockets as his gaze hardens. It’s like watching him put up his own wall piece by piece and she just - 

She didn’t see it before. 

He begins to collect the spare mugs scattered around the room, shoulders hunched. “I’ll be out in a moment if you want to - “

“I’m here to ask you out,” she offers in a rush, watching in amusement as the mugs in his grasp take a tumble to the floor. Only one shatters, the glass splintering across the floor in an array of merrily tinkling, one mug still in his hand as he gapes at her. 

“Uh, to dinner or something.” 

He continues to stare at her in confusion, and she fights not to fidget. To keep her gaze carefully on his. 

She wants him to see that she means it. That  _ this _ is what she wants. 

That she’s tired of running. 

That she only wants him.

For real this time. 

  
  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

The brewery, as ever, proves to be his safe haven.

A place for him to collect his thoughts after leaving Emma’s, sneaking out the door like a bloody coward, unsure if he could handle seeing her with her sleep tangled hair without attempting to press her into the couch and kiss her senseless. Thoroughly unable to sleep at his own place - plagued by dreams of her writhing beneath him, of her draped in his sweatshirt with her fingers twined around his - he had given up, pulled on his boots and headed to the bar.

A place for him to think. To just -

A place for him to slouch in the corner and drink his way through one of the six packs Will left on the bottom shelf of the mini fridge.

“It’s not even eight in the morning,” Granny offers by way of greeting, kicking out a stool and lowering herself down with a sigh, threading her fingers together over her lap. She gives him an appraising look over the top of her glasses, eyebrows pulled low.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he quips, tipping the bottle back again, letting the bitter taste roll over his tongue.

Bitter beer for a bitter man with bitter thoughts.

He’s well aware of how pathetic he is.

Her face tightens, an interesting twist to the set of her lips. “You know my rules.”

“Aye, no Jimmy Buffett in the bar. My apologies.”

She huffs. “You seem pretty keen on making your life miserable lately,” she reaches between them for the six pack and takes one out, nudging it out of his reach with her foot. It’s less than subtle, and he feels a flash of shame even as she pops her own bottle with the opener she keeps in her front pocket, taking a long sip. She smacks her lips as she lowers the glass, rolling the bottle between her palms. “I gather it did not go well in Maine.”

("There's a very real chance you could get hurt here."

"Are you worried about me, Granny?"

"I am.")

“No,” he sighs, scratching roughly at the back of his neck. “Well yes, rather.”

At the tilt of her head, he elaborates.

“It was perfect, actually. It was exactly how I thought it might be, being with her like that.”

Granny’s frown deepens, and he just - he’s rather tired.

“She didn’t feel the same?”

He thinks of her smile in the morning, the cold of her nose brushing against his as they huddled together in her bed. He thinks of her arms around his waist as he made pancakes, her lips pressing to his shoulder through the thick material of his sweatshirt. He thinks of  _ I wanted you to kiss me  _ and the flush in her cheeks, her hair clinging to her neck as she rocked above him.

He shrugs, and does his best not to sound so god damned heartbroken.

“Not enough, I suppose.”

(He’s well aware of how pathetic he is.)

-/-

“How about you take the rest of the day off?”

He shakes his head, keeping his gaze intently on the empty bottle in his hand. He has no wish to see the pity in her gaze. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

Emma’s shoes are still in his hallway from a misguided attempt at working out months ago, and the sweatshirt she stole still smells a bit like her. Bits of her presence are scattered throughout his home, and when he’s there he only feels all the more lonely because of it, his hand itching to bury the feeling in drink.

“Alright, well,” she pushes herself up from the stool, collecting his empty bottles and giving him a shrewd look once more from over top her glasses. She has a knack for communicating intense emotion with that look, and he shrinks a bit under her steady gaze. “Stop taking your feelings out on my brewing equipment, would you?”

He licks at the corner of his bottom lip, brushing his palms against his thighs, shoulders falling with a sigh scrounged up from the very soles of his feet. “No promises, my dear.”

Various attempts at making different flavors of beer has occupied his time as of late, but perhaps he could give the old girl a rest. Arriving to the bar hours early for his shift affords him some time to catch up on the list of tasks Will left unfinished in his absence. The shelving underneath the bar that hangs crooked is one he’s actually looking forward to. He supposes wielding a hammer might do him some good.  

“Oh, and Killian?”

“Aye?”

Granny taps the door frame.

“I’m proud of you.”

His cheeks flush despite his very best efforts. “For doing exactly what you warned me against?”

“For putting yourself out there,” she corrects, the severe lines on her forehead relaxing into something warm. His blush deepens, and he stares at the toes of his boots instead of her face, feeling incredibly young. For as much as she protests, Granny does indeed care a great deal about those she’s collected under her wing. “Also, since you’re here so early, I’d appreciate it if you unclogged the disposal in the kitchens.”

He smiles. Tasking him with something undesirable is much more in the vein of what is to be expected from Granny. “As you wish.”

-/-

He’s right. Hammering the shelf back into a level alignment is indeed the perfect remedy for his sour mood. In fact, for the first time since he heaved himself off the dreaded flight from Maine, he feels a bit more like himself.

He ignores the whisper in the back of his mind that reminds him of the way he felt when he found himself at Emma’s apartment, her feet brushing against his beneath the coffee table and the smell of her honey shampoo tickling his nose.

He’s rather hopeless.

Still, it’s nice to lose himself in the mindlessness of work. The ebb and flow of taking orders and filling drinks as the day slogs on and customers begin to fill the bar. He favors the front of house tonight, abiding by Granny’s order to leave the brewing equipment alone - for this evening anyway. He had been quite serious when he expressed an interest to create a blueberry flavored beer, even more so now that -

\- now that the blustery afternoon in the greenhouse has been the subject of his dreams for the past several nights, various alternate endings playing out as he sleeps. All of which involve him waking up drenched in sweat and painfully aroused, palms pressed to his eyes until he heaves himself into a cold shower.

(Or, until he gives in to the thrumming in his blood and curls his hand around his aching cock, thumbing at the tip and pretending it’s her touch, fingers sure and soft, lips curled up at the edges and the pink of her tongue darting out to lick at a hint of blueberry lingering on the lush swell of her bottom lip.)

Decidedly hopeless.

“You look like you’re having an interesting thought.”

He startles, almost dropping the glass in his hand as he comes back to himself. He manages to right his grip and set it carefully down on the bar top, slinging his towel back through his belt loop. Illicit daydreams, he reminds himself harshly, are not particularly helpful in the workplace.

A pretty brunette smiles at him when he looks up, mouth toying with the straw of her empty drink.

“I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere, lass. Can I get you something?”

Her smiles deepens, and she leans further over the bar. Her gaze dips from his eyes to his lips, and it’s suddenly very apparent just what it is she requires of him.

“I can think of a thing or two.”

It’s a tempting thought. Losing himself in a very beautiful, very willing woman would certainly prove to be a distraction from his traitorous thoughts. Goodness knows he’s not unfamiliar with that particular method of evasion. But it doesn’t sit quite right, and despite the very blatant offer, he finds himself shaking his head slightly.

“Apologies, love. But unless you’re after some beer battered onion rings or a refill on that vodka tonic, I won’t be of much service.”

She slips back into her stool, chin in her hand, smile rueful. “That’s a shame,” her fingers press her glass forward across the bar top. “I suppose I’ll take the vodka tonic then.”

“A far better choice, I assure you.”

She rolls her eyes, watching with arms crossed over her chest as he moves through the motions of pulling the vodka bottle from the newly righted shelf beneath and replenishing her glass.

He slides it back over to her, waving off her request to put it on her tab, and she nods her thanks. “Since you did reject me so resoundingly, I would like to ask another favor.”

He arches an eyebrow, amused at her boldness. She’d get along swimmingly with Ruby, he muses. “Besides the free drink, you mean?”

She nods, taking a hearty sip from the drink in question. “Yeah. Use your bartender intuition and steer me in the direction of your cutest patron.”

He grins. “Well, the lad over by the door has had his eye on you since you came up to the bar.”

She smiles in response. “Perfect.”

-/-

The worst of it, he realizes, is how much he misses her.

He doesn’t enjoy avoiding her, honest enough with himself to acknowledge that avoidance is exactly what he’s been doing. But he still - needs a little bit of space to get over her refusal. He fears a free drink and a redirection aren’t going to do the trick for him. No, perhaps with a little bit of time, he’ll be able to convince himself that things truly are better off this way. She had been right, of course. It wouldn't do for them to make an attempt just to -

He sighs. These are the exact thoughts he told himself he could no longer indulge in. After going over to Emma’s with pizza - after apologizing and telling her he would try to be better, that she didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his own disappointments -

It doesn't help either of them to keep thinking like this.

He stretches out on the deck of his boat, one foot petulantly sticking out through the railings. He couldn’t muster up the energy to take her out after leaving the bar, more content to feel the push and pull of the tide as she stayed tied to the docks. Figuring it would help settle his heart as well as his mind, he’s dismayed that his thoughts have only managed to find themselves succinctly drawn back to Emma.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. He knew untangling his feelings would be an arduous task, but he didn't expect it to pursue him so relentlessly.

But then again, even before their little experiment in Maine, Emma was a rather permanent fixture in his thoughts.

For what feels like the thousandth time in as many days, he drags his hand over his face and curses his own mind. Perhaps his best bet is to let his thoughts travel as they may. Ride out the storm, as Liam was so fond of saying.

(“Who knows, Killian, you may learn a lesson or two.”

Exasperated, Killian stares. “Where is it you pick up this shite, brother?”

Liam grins. “The backs of those cereal boxes.”)

He closes his eyes and focuses on the rise and fall of the water, his mind conjuring up Emma beside him as easy as breathing.

“You’re a sad, sorry man, Killian Jones.”

It’s a comforting thought, though. Her hand in his and her hair tickling his chin, huddled together on the small deck of his ship.

It’s certainly something lovely to drift off to.

-/-

“You know, falling asleep on the deck of your boat towards the tail end of November doesn't exactly give me confidence in your mental state.”

He startles from his position reclined in the arm chair in the far corner of the brewing room, blinking away what promised to be a delightful mid-afternoon nap. He’s still had trouble sleeping, despite his newfound philosophy. Plagued by dreams of heavy storms at sea, Emma’s face tear stained and her fingers slipping through his, he spends most nights staring intently upon his ceiling. Granny frowns at him.

“And falling asleep with goggles still strapped to your face doesn't inspire it neither.”

He huffs, pressing the goggles to his forehead and massaging the lines that are indented into his skin. He hates the infernal things, but he’s a stickler for safety. He likes his eyebrows attached to his face.

“Are you and the harbormaster gossiping about me again?”

To his delight, a faint blush rises on the old woman's cheeks. He snickers, and she whacks him on the  back of the head with the dishtowel stuffed haphazardly in her apron.

“Ned merely mentioned it in conversation,” she responds airily.

He thinks of how  _ Ned  _ has stopped by close to three times already this week, and the way in which he shuffles his feet every time Granny makes an appearance. “I bet he mentioned something else, too,” he mutters.

The thwack of the towel is loud, this time landing straight and true on his shoulder.

“You know, you’re being awfully fresh for an employee who has yet to fix the disposal,” she glances around the room with a sigh, nose wrinkling in disgust. “And would you clean up back here? This place is starting to look like Will’s in charge again.”

Heat pricks at the back of his neck as he sets his boots back on the floor, glancing at the collection of mugs in various states of use around the room. He winces when he sees the one from the first batch - the layer of filth that’s clinging to it like a second skin.

“Apologies. I’ve been trying to - “

“Blueberry, I know. Just clean it up, would you?” She shakes her head at him with a smile, already halfway out the door. For all her tough talk, he knows she merely worries about him, and it settles warmly in his chest. It’s nice to be looked after, even if it’s frequently accompanied by violence.

The door swings open again and he catches a glimpse of blonde hair from where he’s busy rearranging the kegs into some semblance of order. His heart jumps erratically in his chest and he bites his tongue against a curse when he jams his knee rather neatly into one of the shelving units.

It seems a few days separation has had no effect whatsoever on his reaction to her presence.

“Blueberry,” he offers by way of greeting, anxiety robbing him of his manners. It’s been a bloody week, but he still feels as if he’s being held underwater, his heart tucked neatly in the palm of her hand. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

She blinks at him in response, an interesting shade of pink brushing the swell of her cheeks. He idly wonders if she’s remembering the same moment as him, when they stood huddled in the greenhouse and he wanted to kiss her so badly his skin itched with it.

“Oh.”

But it is yet another foolish hope, and he reminds himself soundly that such thoughts don’t serve him well. He abandons his manual labor for the moment, brushing his hands against his jeans. Emma is still shifting from foot to foot in the entry to the brewing room, her hands clasped so tight her knuckles flash white.

“Is everything alright, love?”

It doesn’t escape his notice that this is the second time since they’ve returned that she’s had to seek him out. He’s been a poor friend since their return despite his promises, and his stomach drops at the thought that something could have very well happened, and he has no idea. Concern rises sudden and quick, and he reaches forward to cup her elbow and draw her closer, scanning her intently for possible injury.

(He’s done this before, when she’s returned to his apartment after a round of search and seizure with the latest villain - brambles still in her hair and grass stains on her knees. Catalogued every mark and scratch and guided her carefully to the arm chair by the window, forcing her to sit while he retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the sink.

“You’re being ridiculous, you know.”

“Your well-being is not a joke, darling.”)

The contact seems to startle her, and she blinks up at him, her hand rising slowly to trace the circles that no doubt linger under his eyes - seemingly without her express permission. A frown twists her lips and he flinches despite himself, unwilling to see that look on her face because of something he’s done.

Unwilling to have these moments where she touches him like she bloody well means it, knowing all the while that she does not.

She’s yet to say a word and the concern pulls sharper. “Emma? Are you okay?”

Shaking her head, the moment vanishes, and she carefully removes herself from his grasp. “Yeah,” she nods, and he tucks his hands into his back pockets to resist the urge to guide her back into his space.

Foolish. Despite everything, he’s still -

He still cares far too much.

He straightens his shoulders and take a fortifying breath. He promised just the other day that things would not change between them, and perhaps now is the time to start honoring that particular oath.

He begins collecting the mugs stacked haphazardly over every flat surface of the work room, in an effort to occupy his hands.

“I’ll be out in a moment if you want to - “

“I’m here to ask you out,” she interrupts and the glass in his hand slips from his grasp, the sound of it shattering masked nicely by the sudden uptick of his pulse thundering in his ears. He stares at her like an ass, he’s sure, but he can’t quite help it. She fidgets in the face of his confusion, hands returning to their clasped position and her body rocking back on her heels.

Still, she manages to keep her gaze steady on his. “Uh, to dinner or something.”

It’s silent for a beat, and he’s as surprised as she is when the first word that slips from his mouth is a quiet and definitive -

“No,” he averts his gaze to the ground where he’s made a right mess of things, shattered glass and half brewed beer spilling out onto the floor. As soon as the word leaves his mouth, though, he knows he’s made the right choice.

He glances back up to her face just in time to see her expression crumble. “No?”

Steeling his resolve in the face of her obvious disappointment, he nods. “I can’t - it isn’t fair of you to ask, Swan,” he rebukes as gently as he can, a small part of himself angry with her for even bringing up the idea of it. “You know the way I feel about you and I don’t wish - I’m not willing to put myself through it again. I’m sorry, Emma.”

Feeling much like the beer splattered across the floor - or perhaps the broken glass all jumbled with it’s sharp edges - he meets her gaze with a heavy sigh.

She’s smiling at him.

“Swan?”

And not the gentle smirk that curls at the corners of her lips or the passive uptick that makes the dimple in her chin flash. No, it’s the grin she reserves for full belly laughs and donuts still warm from the fryer. Good coffee and his shirt about her shoulders, hair still tousled from sleep and Henry leaning against her at her parent’s kitchen table. It’s his favorite smile, to be quite honest, and he finds himself smiling a bit in response.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

And just like that, the smile slips from his lips, a frown and a scowl replacing it easily. He rolls his eyes, holding up his hand when she makes to move closer. Despite the flush of embarrassment burning his cheeks and the small pull of anger in his gut, he doesn't wish for her to get glass wedged in her boots.

“Glad you take me seriously,” he grumbles, eyeing the corner of the room for where he left the broom. He can busy himself with this until she leaves, and then perhaps fall apart on his own time. He didn’t know what he expected when he confessed his feelings - again - but it certainly wasn’t for her to laugh in his face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me - “

“No, Killian,” she ignores him, as she tends to do, and steps over the glass, crowding his space and cupping his face gently between her palms. “I’m asking you out on a date, for real.”

He steadies her with his hands on her hips, her skin warm beneath the thin fabric of her sweater. It’s enough of a distraction that he asks her to repeat herself, concerned this could all be a hallucination and he’s still half-asleep in the arm chair in the back.

“Do you want to go out on a real date?” she asks, cheeks flushed and so beautiful he almost falls to his knees. Apparently whatever expression he's wearing begs for further clarification, because she adds, “With me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he offers, because he’s not sure he can take it if this is another miscommunication. If she doesn’t  _ mean _ it because -

He squeezes her hips once, urging his mind to quiet, the feel of her beneath his palms overwhelming after their separation this past week.

“I know I said - I said that I didn’t want to try, but you were right. I was just afraid.” Her breath stutters, honey and cinnamon on her tongue, so close he can practically taste it. “It was Henry, actually, that convinced me. He said I shouldn’t be afraid anymore, not with you.”

He touches her face, the swell of her cheek. Lets his hand slip back into her hair. It’s too much and not enough, his mind barely comprehending the way they’ve slowly started moving closer to one another. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of with me, love.”

“I know that. And I’d really - I’d like to try,” she whispers, eyes softening with her smile. “If you still want to, that is.”

He blinks at her, trying to comprehend a world in which he  _ wouldn’t _ want to try.

“You bloody infuriating - “

He gives in to the urge to kiss her then, curling his hand gently around the nape of her neck and pulling her body into his, the crunching of the glass beneath their boots barely registering. Her lips are just as soft as he remembers, the quiet sound she makes at the back of her throat when he tilts her head back and kisses her deeper just as intoxicating. Before, he had to hold himself back. Kiss her with restraint and not the way he so desperately wished. But now -

She pulls away from him with a gasp, her hands still fisted tight in the material of his shirt. Her eyes are sparkling, gods help him, and her nose brushes against his as she lingers in his space. She doesn't want to go far and he’s loathe to encourage it, his fingertips toying with the warm skin just under them hem of her shirt.

“But if we try and it doesn’t work - “

“ - it will work, love - “

“But if we try, and it doesn’t,” she leans back, gaze dipping between his lips and his eyes and he - he is hopelessly, terribly in love with her. “You have to promise you’ll still be my friend.”

He could wax poetic about how they’ve already faced the most uncomfortable option, and he never considered leaving her behind, not for one moment. He could tell her all about how he’d be willing to do just about anything for her, in any capacity she’d allow. But for once in his life, he settles for simplicity instead.

“I promise.”

She’s the one who kisses him this time, a quiet hunger in the way she works her mouth against his. Her hands end up in his hair, tugging lightly, and he can’t help the groan that rises from deep in his chest. He presses his thumb against the dimple in her chin that’s been tormenting him for near a lifetime, pressing her mouth open wider and kissing her harder, curling his tongue around hers. It’s messy and wet and everything he’s wanted since that damned day in the laundry sophomore year of university.

She breaks away again and he gives in to the temptation to drag kisses down the smooth line of her throat, arousal pulling low in his belly. She’s beautiful, flushed and wanting - wanting  _ him _ .

For real this time.

She slips on the glass beneath their feet, a muttered curse on her lips, and he doesn't hesitate to wrap his arm around her back and pick her up, marching them away from the mess. She arches an eyebrow at him, but he just grins, too ecstatic to be cowed by anything. He’s sure a herd of buffalo could come through, destroying all his brewing equipment, and he’d still  be smiling like a damned fool.

He sets her back on her feet, but she stays in his space, palms flat against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she begins. “For the way I treated you. I’m so sorry.”

He laughs, he can’t help it. Even this morning’s dreary mood feels a lifetime away when she’s here in his arms.

"Darling, I've spent the whole of my adult life trying to convince myself that you are not exactly what I've always wanted,” he curls his finger around an errant lock of hair, tugging once. “I daresay a week of separation has not been any more compelling than previous arguments. In fact, it has only made one thing all the more startlingly clear."

His heart pounds in his chest, the words on the tip of his tongue. For all the times he’s swallowed it down before, this moment feels right.

It feels perfect, actually.

But as always, she manages to best him.

"Is it that you're in love with me?” Voice quiet, eyes bright with moisture, she smiles at him. “Because I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."

His heart has stopped, he’s sure of it. He swallows around the lump in his throat and traces her cheek with his thumb, smiling slow and sure when she leans into his touch. He has half a mind to ask her to pinch him, just to be sure he’s not dreaming. "There you go. Always stealing my thunder."

She huffs out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob, but he says nothing. After all, he feels dangerously close to a swell of emotion himself. “I figured I was moving so slow, I might as well do some wind sprints.”

She looks faintly shell shocked, so he drags his thumb over her bottom lip, reassurances already promised in the space between them. “Nothing has to change, love.”

She smiles and drags her hands back up to his hair, pressing up on her toes and whispering against his mouth. “I want it to.”

This time there’s no telling who kisses who. All he knows is the sweet taste of her mouth and the press of her breasts against his chest, her nails making indents into the skin of his neck when he backs her against the wall behind one of the larger shelves. She gasps into the kiss, and he tilts his head, sliding his tongue along hers in a thick rush of heat that has him hard in his jeans in half a second. She arches her back, pressing her hips up, and he’d be embarrassed by the sound that leaves his mouth if she didn’t immediately echo it back, breathy and soft.

She wants him. She  _ loves _ him.

It’s enough to drive a man mad.

As is the way Emma’s moving against him, tiny swivels of her hips that have him aching to slide his hand down the front of her indecently tight jeans and feel just how warm and wet she is. But he doesn't want this to be like before, moments stolen in between fleeting touches, his hands shaking beneath their clothes. Too afraid to take the time for bare skin. Too afraid to break the spell around them. He wants to do it right this time, with her bare skin on display and his hands free to touch. He wants to take his time, to learn what she likes, to understand the sounds she makes when he touches her just so.

He smooths his hand along her thigh instead, hips falling more perfectly in line with hers when she lifts obligingly, curling her foot around the back of his knee. She nips at his bottom lip with her teeth, tongue soothing the mark, and he presses harder into her. So lost is he in the feel of her, he doesn't notice the sound of the door opening or hear the feet moving across the room.

But he does feel the smack of the towel on his shoulder, his entire body jolting against Emma.

Granny grins at him from over his shoulder, Emma burying her face in his chest.

“Oh, thank fuck.”

-/-

After they’ve managed to untangle themselves and he’s calmed himself down - 

(Emma, licking her lips, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. 

“You alright there, sailor?” 

He smirks, adjusting himself, delighting in the way her cheeks flash an even brighter shade of pink.

“I’m sure I’ll manage, darling.)

After, she sits at the bar as he works, her gaze following him intently as he does his best to not spill every bloody pint he pours. She licks her lips when he catches her eyes and he drags his fingers over the top of her hand when he passes, delighting in the goosebumps that raise on her skin. 

He catches her yawning, though, well before last call and he ducks his head close to hers, encouraging her quietly to go home. 

“Does tomorrow night work for you, love?”

She smiles at him, tired eyes crinkling at the corners. He doesn’t stop himself from tracing the shape of her mouth like he wants to, her breath warm against the pad of his thumb. He’s quite finished with holding himself back. “I’m the one that asked you out, remember?” 

“How could I forget?” he grins, and she rolls her eyes. 

After a moment, she nods, voice shy. “Yeah, I’m free tomorrow.” 

“I’ll pick you up at six, then.” He grins. “Dress warm.” 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start off by thanking you all for you incredible love and patience with this story. It's the longest thing I have ever written and a serious labor of love. I know I am terrible with responding to reviews, but I want you to know I read (and appreciate, and cry over) every single one. I'll try to do better with responding for this last bit. While this is the last chapter, it is not the end of the story. There will be an epilogue, hopefully delivered to you within the next couple weeks. 
> 
> Now, off to the story. This chapter is rated a hard M, as it's basically entirely smut and fluff. I very much hope you enjoy it. :)

_ Emma: How warm? _

_ Killian: You’ve been outside, love. You know the temperature. _

She rolls her eyes and pulls her sweater over her head, smoothing down the static with her palm. When she wore this sweater a month ago, she had noticed how Killian’s eyes lingered on her collarbones. At the time, she had thought she was making a mess of herself with the new buffalo wing recipe Granny was trying, but now -

Now she knows he likes to drag his teeth along the sharp line of bone, tongue pressing at the hollow of her throat when she tilts her head back. She knows how his fingers squeeze tighter at her thigh when she chokes out his name, almost like he can barely restrain himself from -

Her phone buzzes again on the bedspread, and she shakes herself from her thoughts, feeling like a horny adolescent.  

_ Killian: My sweatshirt is always available if you catch a chill. _

_ Killian: Though I intend to keep you warm. _

Well.

That’s certainly doesn’t help.

Because now - now she’s thinking about the way he bit at her bottom lip and curled his fingers around the back of her thigh as he pressed her to the wall of his brewing room. How he licked into her mouth, curling his tongue around hers until she gasped and he pressed harder with his hips, practically pinning her to the wall and -

Her phone buzzes in her hand and she startles, dropping the damn thing to the floor.

_ Killian: See you soon, darling. _

She smiles, the heat in her belly easily distracted by the glowing warmth that seems to start in her chest and flow outward. Like tiny pinpricks of light that settle in the swell of her cheeks. It’s strange, she thinks as she tugs on her boots. It feels exactly the same as any other night spent in the company of Killian. She doesn't feel the strings of apprehension or anxiety that typically plague her before a date. She just - she’s -

She’s happy.

Really happy.

-/-

She meets him in the hallway, too impatient to wait any longer. He frowns when he sees her, his fingers curled around an unmarked brown paper bag.

“What are you doing?”

She finds herself mirroring his frown, glancing down at herself to make sure she doesn't accidentally have a dryer sheet sticking to her pants. It’s been known to happen, and Killian always sighs when he plucks it from her clothes and shoves it into his jacket pocket.

She shifts on her feet, no dryer sheets as far as she can tell. God, she hopes her hair isn’t still a wild display of static from earlier. Maybe she should ask Killian if he has any of those dryer sheets on him now. “Uh, meeting you downstairs?”

“Swan,” his lips settle into a firm line, and he takes a step closer, his hand finding her hip as he walks them back towards her apartment. “I’m supposed to pick you up at your apartment.”

She still doesn't understand. “Killian, you are at my apartment.”

“No, but I’m supposed to come to your door. I want to do this proper, love.”

When she does nothing more than stare at him blankly, he rolls his eyes and shifts the paper bag in his hand to the other, reaching in his back pocket for his keys.

“Are you serious?”

She watches as he opens her apartment door with his spare, kicking it open with his boot. He nods and she rolls her eyes.

“In you go.”

She sighs and steps over the threshold, crossing her arms over her chest as she raises both eyebrows. When he does nothing but arch an eyebrow silently in response, she fights the urge to kick his shin.

“Close the door.”

“Oh my  _ god _ .”

“Swan - “

She slams the door as hard as she can, ignoring the muffled sound of laughter through the door. It’s still and silent for a moment, and then his knuckles rap against the wood. For a second, she considers not answering, snickering in the dark hallway of her apartment. But her heart is somewhere in her throat at this stupid man and his insistence that this be done  _ proper _ and she -

He knocks again. “Bloody hell, woman. Don’t make me beg.”

She swings the door back open with a laugh, wedging herself against the jamb. “Can I help you?”

“Aye, I’m here to pick you up for our date,” he grins, his smile so wide and beautiful and genuinely happy she’s struck with the overwhelming desire to taste that feeling on his lips. She hesitates, still not used to the freedom of action when it comes to him and the way he makes her feel. But then his gaze lingers on the jut of her collarbones beneath her sweater, eyes flashing dark, and she’s reaching for him just as he’s reaching for her.

She stumbles a step backwards when his lips find hers, his palm at the small of her back the only thing keeping her upright. The bag that was in his hand drops somewhere near their feet but she doesn’t care - not when his teeth pull at her bottom lip and his thumb presses at her chin until she opens for him, his tongue warm and wet against her own. She groans, fingers inching over his shoulders to curl in his hair, her back pressed against the wall of her tiny foyer. What started as hungry and devouring slowly settles into simmering heat, his mouth gentling against hers.

He pecks her once, twice, three times before pulling away, letting his forehead rest against hers. She smiles when he breathes out slow, her palm slipping from his shoulder to rest over his heart.

“You ready to go?”

She’s ready for him to press his mouth back to hers, to slip his hand beneath her shirt and drag his palm up until his fingers are curled around her breast. She’s ready for him to walk them backwards and press her down into her mattress, remove her clothes until she’s gasping and arching and panting beneath him.

She rubs her fingertips against his warm flannel and nudges her nose with his. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Now, she just - she wants to be with him.

“That depends,” she presses a soft kiss to his lips when she feels him tense, reassuring him with her touch. She’s done running from this. From him. “What’s in that bag?”

-/-

He brought her a bear claw, still warm from the bakery down the street that she goes to when she lands a big skip. When she’s feeling powerful and special and on top of the world.

She licks the sugar from her fingers in the passenger seat of his car, thinking maybe the occasion calls for it.

“Are breakfast pastries a part of the Killian Jones dating experience?”

“Just for you, love,” he winks at her as they edge out of the parking lot, turning left on Castro and making their way towards the docks. “Besides, I couldn’t very well bring you flowers, now could I?”

-/-

He’s right. She would have hated flowers. She would have hated a fancy restaurant with stuffy clothes and expensive wine lists and seventeen kinds of desserts on an overpriced menu.

But she loves how his car smells like old leather and the apple pies he gets from Ruby’s. That his usual parking spot at the docks is marked with a crooked anchor that Ned the Harbormaster scrawled  _ Captain Hook  _ on because once Killian decorated his ship like the Jolly Roger and dressed up in a ridiculous costume for the kids at Halloween and Ned never let him live it down. She loves that he didn’t string the boat with lights or put on romantic music. That there’s just the usual Chinese takeout tucked beneath a stack of blankets, the sweatshirt she loves to steal from him folded carefully on top.

He scratches at the back of his neck and watches her from the corner of his eye as she lingers on the old boardwalk, her throat tight and eyes burning. It’s just -

“If you want to do something different, we can. I thought - “

She shakes her head, pressing up on her toes to catch his lips in a quick kiss. She’s still not quite used to it. How she can do that now.

“S’perfect,” she mutters, stepping carefully onto the boat.

But it’s the look on his face she loves best. How the dimples in his cheeks flash with his smile, his eyes lighting up like all his dreams have come true.

-/-

She knows the feeling.

-/-

She holds out the carton of pork fried rice as he finds his place next to her, once he’s maneuvered them out of the docks and far enough down the river that Portland twinkles merrily in the distance. She leans back on her elbows, tilting her head back as she considers the stars.

“We really have been dating all along, haven’t we?”

“Aye,” he answers easily, leaning over her to get to the eggrolls she didn’t devour. “Just without the fun parts.”

She smiles and lets her hand scratch through the hair at the base of his neck where it curls up against his collar, not letting herself overthink it. It’s still hard for her, to say the things she spent so long bottling up. To learn this language of casual intimacy - to sift her fingers through his hair when her hand itches to, to press her thigh to his and not shy away. His teasing look softens into something quiet and gentle, his palm finding her knee and squeezing once.

“I’m glad it’s real now,” she whispers, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. She thinks of the way they curled together beneath the flannel sheets at her parents house, how his hand pressed to her belly and his knees tucked neatly against the backs of hers. How warm and safe and loved she felt.

She gets to have that now.

For real, this time.

“As am I, Swan.”

They lapse into easy conversation, the both of them catching one another up on the happenings of the week they spent apart. She tells him of her latest case, how she used her stun gun on her mark because he took a swing at her. How she decked him and even upped the voltage, a little gift for all the trouble he caused for the family he left behind. Killian’s eyes glow with pride as his fingers find her hip, tucking her closer as he tells her how brilliant she is. How she’ll have to come to the bar one night this week for celebratory drinks, as he thinks he’s finally got the specifics for the blueberry beer down.

She smiles as she remembers the humidity of that little greenhouse, how the toes of his boots pressed up against hers, his lips tinted the slightest shade of blue from one too many stolen berries that should have been going in their collection buckets, not his mouth. How badly she wanted to taste them on his lips.

“About those fun parts,” she mutters, feeling the heat tug low in her belly once more as their gazes linger. He chuckles, tilting his head towards hers, curling his fingers through her hair.

“About that.”

He licks into her mouth without hesitation, a hot slide of his tongue against hers that she sighs into, fingers curling around his wrist where he cups her face. While she was the one to push at the apartment, he’s the one pushing now - pushing her back until she’s on her elbows against the blankets spread over the deck of his little ship. Pushing until he’s tucked between her spread thighs, kissing her so hungrily she’s breathless with it.

“Killian,” she breathes, hips pressing up into his.

“We shouldn’t - “ he mutters into the skin of her neck, voice thick. “I want to do this proper.”

“So you keep saying,” she laughs, arousal thrumming through her in a slow and steady beat. She feels it settle in the tips of her breasts, the space between her thighs, and wants him so desperately she aches with it. Before it was muddled and rushed, her senses dulled by liquor and denial. This time, she wants to remember it. “It’s been ten years of foreplay, Killian. I don’t care about proper.”

“I mean to have you in a bed, love,” he grits out, a dark promise as his teeth find the space just below her ear, worrying it gently even as he lifts his hips from hers. His chest follows and he smiles down at her, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. His own is a ridiculous mess, both from her fingers and the breeze coming in off the water, tufts of it going every which way. She smoothes her palm over his head with a smile, letting her thumb linger over the tip of his ear.

His smile softens into something sweet and far too shy for the way his mouth was working at her skin a minute ago, a blush climbing his cheeks.

“With sheets,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Oh, alright,” she huffs, closing her eyes against the sharp tug of heat low in her belly. Her brows furrow in frustration and her legs go slack from where they’ve been hugging his hips. She tries to focus on the gentle rocking of the boat beneath them to calm herself, and not how if she presses up just a bit she could probably grind her way to orgasm against his leg.

After a moment of silent consideration, she feels his hand slip along her arm, fingers tangling with hers.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t see to you,” he mumbles, mouth back on her neck, the palm of his other hand pressing lightly at her thigh.  

She tilts her chin up with a gasp when his teeth graze the spot just beneath her ear that makes her back arch, eyes blinking open to watch him move over her. She feels muddled and warm - hazy and unfocused - deliciously and deliriously happy. “What’s that mean?”

One eyebrow arches high on his forehead in silent explanation as his hand moves between them, toying with the button of her jeans. “Only if you want to, that is.”

She blinks, shifting her legs wider when his fingers tap up and down the inside of her thigh. “Is that a serious question?”

His chuckle is muffled when his mouth dips back to her skin, but she feels the vibrations of it when he presses down against her. She hopes there are no cargo shipments coming down the river right now. She’s sure they’re giving quite the show.

“Alright then.”

She bites her lip as he undoes the button to her jeans, working down the zipper slowly, his fingers toying with the edge of her panties. Over the years, she’s watched him work meticulously when presented with something he’s truly passionate about - the way he carefully tinkers with ingredients in the brewing room, the way he trails his palm along the railing of his boat on quiet Saturday afternoons, following behind with sandpaper to smooth the wood. She just never realized how damn  _ slow _ he is. He leans up on his elbow, gaze flitting down between her legs, and she fights not to pull him back down to her.

“Are these new?”

“What?”

“Your undergarments,” he supplies, his voice gritting along the words as if they’re causing him physical pain. “I’ve never seen you wear anything quite so - “

His voice trails off, his fingers rubbing at the top of the material, thumb and forefinger considering the lace. She’s impatient to feel his touch lower, feel his fingers slipping and circling where she is aching and wet. She huffs and knocks his side with her knee.

“Technically, you haven’t seen me in any of my underwear.”

He certainly can’t see them now, her clothes only pushed out of the way enough for him to touch her the way he wants. But his fingers trace the material like he can, and he’s always had a good imagination.

“Aye, well, I have been known to come across a pair or two while folding your laundry.” His hand stills against her, his fingertips infuriatingly, barely tucked beneath the thin, delicate piece of ribbon that serves as a waistband to these stupidly expensive panties. She watches the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “I don’t mean I spent an inordinate amount of time gazing at your underwear, I just - “

It’s an odd thing to see him so flustered, but she can’t even enjoy it properly for the lust clouding her brain. Well past the point of frustration, she presses her hips up, encouraging his touch -  _ fuck _ \- lower. “I am well aware of your need to fold my laundry when it sits for longer than three days, Killian. I don’t think it’s weird. Now, please, could you just - “

“I wonder,” he interrupts quietly, his other hand curving over her shoulder, his thumb brushing over the swell of her  breast through layers of sweatshirt and sweater. It’s muted, but electric, and she finds herself wondering how it might feel later when she’s stripped bare and beneath him.

“I wonder if - “ His tone holds quiet focus, voice dipping and gritting along the words in consideration. His gaze flicks up to hers, then back down to her chest. “ - if perhaps your bra is a match.” His touch lingers on the jut of her nipple, pebbled as it is through the material of her sweater. Lace cups are hardly substantial when it comes to concealing arousal, and she’s quite certain no amount of material would do the trick with the way he’s touching her.

“No matter,” he sighs, and he sounds as if they’re talking about what ice cream flavor to get at the grocery. Not the particulars of how he’s slowly and carefully making her insane. “I’ll discover the answer as soon as I get you home.”

His head dips down and he nudges at her breast with his nose, just as his fingers finally -  _ finally  _ \- slip down to her clit. She gasps, shifting her legs wider to give him more room.

“Would you like that, Swan?”

“What?”

She can hardly think when he’s stroking at her like that, two of his fingers pressing up and down, up and down, dipping just inside of her before retreating back to circle her clit. He touches her carefully, not quite enough pressure, but enough for her to tremble beneath him.

He bites at her earlobe, tugging gently, and it sends a shock of warmth down her spine. “Would you enjoy me peeling off your clothing to see if your bra matches your decidedly indecent underwear?” He slips two of his fingers inside of her quickly, pulling them out just as fast and continuing with his gentle tapping against her clit. “I must confess, Swan. I have half a mind to.” 

“Fuck,” she mutters, incapable of answering his question, because just the thought of her half naked on the worn flannel sheets of his bed with his dark eyes gazing down at her is enough for the tension pulled low in her belly to surge and roll. The movements of his hand speed beneath her clothes when she whimpers, his patience seemingly at the same limit as her own. It doesn't take much - just two of his fingers pressing deep while his thumb rubs rough circles against her clit as his teeth find her nipple once more through her sweater, and she - she just -

It’s overwhelming, a bit, the way it starts at the soles of her feet and licks up the back of her thigh to pulse hotly between her legs. She feels it everywhere, hot and encompassing, and as soon as it settles back to that low thrum, she licks at her bottom lip and forces her eyes open, meeting his heavy gaze.

“I very much enjoy watching you come, Swan,” he manages, voice so low she has to strain to hear it. His hand is still down the front of her pants, twisted in the mess of her underwear, and she thinks she might have a thing for the way that looks.

(“Is this something you’ve thought of, love?”

“Less clothes,” she chuckles. “But this is good, too.”)

(This is good, too.)

She nods, hair catching beneath her shoulders. “That’s lucky.”

‘Cause she likes the way he watches her unravel beneath her, how his jaw ticks tight and his eyes flash a shade darker. How the muscles in his forearms flex when she rolls her hips. How he bites at his bottom lip and rocks his hips against her in response, desperate for friction, almost like he can’t quite help it.

“So,” she blinks up at him, chest heaving - terribly, wonderfully ruined. “Your place?”

His jaw does that thing she loves again, his hand slipping from beneath her jeans. She feels his erection against her thigh, notices the color high on his cheeks.

“Aye.”

-/-

If it weren’t for his erection pressing against her palm where it’s draped over his thigh, the drive over to his apartment would feel like any other of the thousand times Killian has brought her over to his place.

Except she brushes her knuckles against his erection at every stop light, just because she can, delighting in the way he breathes out hard through his nose and clenches his fingers tight against the steering wheel.

Except for the way he curls his fingers around the back of her neck when they get caught at a train crossing, the red of the warning lights flashing behind her eyelids as he hauls her halfway overtop the console between them, mouth hungry and sloppy and desperate as he nips at her lips with his teeth.

Except for the way he shifts his car into park so roughly the both of them slide forward in their seats, neither of them caring because her hand is back on his erection and his palm has found the soft skin at the base of her spine, thumb dipping into the waistband of her jeans.

“I’m not fucking you in this car,” he mutters, a slow roll of heat curving up her arms and down over her breasts with the way his voice grits along the word  _ fucking _ .

She pulls back slightly, and catches the grin curling his lips - sinful and dark and  _ oh _ \- so very promising.

“Well, I’m not fucking you in this car tonight. Perhaps another time.”

She blinks at him. Nods once.

It’s a rush up to his apartment, interrupted by the both of them taking turns to pin the other against the walls of his stairwell. She’s grateful for his desire for a building with privacy and how antisocial his neighbors tend to be, as she doesn't feel like explaining why she’s trying to climb him like a tree between the first and fourth floor. When she stops him on the landing just outside his apartment and slips her hand beneath his shirt to scratch at the line of hair low on his abdomen, he makes a sound that goes straight between her legs, his hand tight around her wrist to stop her from moving any lower.

“Let’s move this inside, shall we?”

She nods and follows him the rest of the way to his flat, watching as his hands shake as he unlocks the door, ushering her inside. He crowds her in the hallway as soon as the door is closed between them, his palm finding her hip and his nose buried in her hair.

“Can I fetch you a cup of tea, love?”

She shakes her head, biting at her bottom lip and slipping her jacket from her shoulders, reaching behind her to hang it on the hook she always uses, not caring when the damned thing slips from her grip and lands in a heap on the floor.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she shakes her head, curling her fingers through his belt loops and tugging him further into her. He matches her with a strong step forward, pressing her back against the wall the same way he had her earlier - one of his thighs angled between her own, hands on either side of her hips.

Though she knows that this time, neither of them will be stopping.

“I think I have some - “

“Please, Killian,” she mutters, nuzzling into his jaw and feeling the scratch of his beard against her skin. “Shut up.”

He kisses her then - all tongue and teeth and insistent pressure from his thigh between her legs - gasping breaths and the wet sounds of his mouth against hers in the dim light of his hallway. She tries to pull his jacket from his shoulders as his tongue curls around hers, but the sleeves get caught around his wrist and he has to stop touching her to let it slip to the floor, landing neatly on top of her own.

“Not going to hang that up?”

He shakes his head, too busy working a mark against her collarbone to answer right away. “Not a priority, at the moment.”

A smile curls at her lips. “For all the times you’ve lectured me about proper coat hanging etiquette.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls her away from the wall, palm against her ass urging her gently forward as she turns from him and walks towards his bedroom. There’s no use in pretending that it’s not what they both want.

They’ve wasted enough time.

“Proper can come later.” He shifts into her space again once they’re in his bedroom, nose dragging against hers, fingertips finding the soft skin of her navel just above her jeans.

“You seemed awfully concerned with proper earlier,” she undoes the first button of his flannel, presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat and enjoys the way he rolls his head back in response. His hand squeezes her hip, thumb tucking in the waistband of her jeans. “Though this feels plenty proper.”

He tilts his head back up and grins at her, so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners. “So it does.”

He backs her towards the bed, but not before removing her sweater, his hand reaching for the clasp of her bra with a wink.

“While I’m delighted it does indeed match, love,” he drops her bra to the floor and presses her gently down against the bed, a rough sound in the back of his throat when she arches her back, just a bit. “I’ve not had the opportunity to become properly acquainted quite yet.”

She snorts, tilting her head as he loosens the buckle of his jeans, his gaze fixed pointedly on the flush that colors her breasts pink. “Properly acquainted with my - ?”

“Aye,” he mutters, pulling his flannel from his shoulders with a smooth roll, all pale skin and dark ink in the moonlight that filters in from the windows - never once looking away from her. She finds herself suddenly without a teasing comeback, his skin the best of distractions. He undoes the fly of his jeans and shifts between her open thighs, palms pressing at her knees.

“Lie on your back,” he whispers, and she’s reminded of that night in her bedroom at her parent’s house - when it was freezing cold and they were bickering over the space heater. Except he didn’t slide her jeans from her legs then. Didn’t crawl on top of her, a groan whispered between them when his cock presses against her with startling accuracy through the ruined mess of her underwear. The zipper of his jeans bites into the skin of her thighs, his hips pressing and pressing and pressing again before his arms begin to tremble where he’s holding himself up above her.

“Emma, love, I - “

She nods, hands slipping down his torso to push at the waistband of his jeans. “Yeah, just - “

It’s a frenzied rush of removing the last bits of clothing between them, mouths pressed open and hot against any inch of skin they can reach. When he finds her nipple with his mouth she falls against the bedspread, curling her thigh over his hip and sucking in a sharp breath when the tip of his cock brushes her clit. He’s hard and warm - heavy and thick - and when he rolls his hips against hers, the drag of him feels better than -  _ fuck _ \- better than any dirty fantasy she’s ever imagined in the years she’s known him. She knows without a doubt she won’t be satisfied until he’s buried deep - fucking her down into the mattress until she can’t move.

“Killian,” she whines as he keeps rolling his hips, a slow grind that has her nails digging into his shoulder blades. He probably has marks, and she feels another flash of heat when she thinks of her scratch marks mixed with the lines of ink along his skin.

“Fuck, I love hearing you say my name like that,” he mumbles into her neck. Leveraging himself up on one elbow, he reaches between them, curls his fingers between her legs and slips wide circles around her clit, spreading her wetness. The sound of it is indecent in the stillness of his room, his labored breathing and the proof of her arousal, slippery and hot. She moans, another stilted sound bitten off in the back of her throat and he grins. She glares up at him.

“I swear to god if you draw this out another moment, I’ll - “

“Impatient as ever, I see.”

He fumbles with the condom from his nightstand long enough for her to snicker at him, earning her an eye roll and a pinch to her nipple that makes her arch her back with a gasp. His gaze darkens at that, his body shifting back over hers, her thighs spread wide. When he finally presses into her, it’s a thick slide of heat that has her gasping.

She shifts her legs wider to accommodate him and bites at his bottom lip as he pushes and retreats - a shallow rocking of his hips, settling himself further and further until he’s seated entirely, the fullness of him a delicious pressure. She exhales slowly and wraps her arms around his neck, traces the line of his jaw with her thumb.

“You feel good,” she mutters, flexing her hips and feeling the way he fills her up. She’s never - she didn’t think - she didn’t know it would be like this. Like she’s drowning. Like he’s breaking her apart just to put her back together again.

He breathes out a disbelieving laugh through his nose, fingers clenched tight on her hip. “Fucking hell, Swan,” just like the way his voice sounds rougher right when he wakes up or has his first taste of a particularly good beer, it sounds broken now. A low rasp of her name that has her rolling her hips beneath his, encouraging him to move. He groans and presses tighter against her hips, forces her to stop her motion by pinning her to the bed. “Give a man a moment.”

She grins into his neck, breathing out a shaky exhale as he begins to move. It’s slow and steady at first, until she hitches her legs up to cross her ankles at the small of his back and digs her teeth into his collarbone, his body finally giving in and fucking her down in the mattress like she wants. She hardly notices the sounds she’s making, just the steady stream of utterly filthy things he’s whispering into her ear. Things like  _ fucking hell you’re wet _ and  _ you feel so good _ and  _ come for me, darling, aye, just like that _ .

Her orgasm overwhelms her, stealing her breath and pricking at her skin until all she can see is flashes of red and white, her eyes clenched tight against the force of it. She presses her palms flat to his chest as she rides it out, feels the pleasure curl and burst and center between her legs.

He helps her through it, rocking his hips faster and faster until he’s groaning above her, something stilted and debauched that sounds like her name. They lay tangled together panting once he stills, fighting to even their breathing.

She blinks up at the ceiling, her body feeling deliciously, deliriously warm. Light and airy and all those stupid other things she thought couldn't possible happen during sex.

It would seem sex with your best friend has its merits.  

“Oh my  _ god _ .”

“Aye,” he nods, nose brushing her cheek, his fingers glancing along the soft skin just below her ribs. “That was - “

She exhales, grinning, and squeezes the back of his neck. “Yeah, it - yeah.”

-/-

“Would it be terribly cliche if I told you how much I love you right now?”

She tucks her smile into his shoulder, shakes her head.

“No,” she waits until she feels his lips against the top of her head, the way his beard catches on her hair. “I love you, too.”

-/-

“What were some of the things?”

“What’s that?”

“Last night, you said, you spent a long time trying to convince yourself that I’m -” she hesitates, still overcome with the feel of it. His body spread out at her side, his fingers tracing designs along her back as she lays curled next to him. To be wanted so completely. She remembers lonely nights spent in crowded group homes, her knees tucked to her chest as she gazed out the window and wished for someone, somewhere, to want her.

He glances the tips of his fingers along her cheek, smiling at her softly. “That you’re not everything I’ve always wanted? Aye, though the effort was rather futile. I must admit.”

She burrows her way over into his arms, smiling when he pretends to be affronted and huffs, but settles his arm low around her waist regardless. His lips brush her forehead as he thinks, and it’s all so easy now to remember how hard it was. When she can feel the press of his bare skin to hers.

“So what are some of the things? That you tried to convince yourself with.”

“Oh, that,” he frowns for a moment, remembering, before his eyes glimmer with mischief, sly smile pulling at his lips. “You chew with your mouth open half the time.”

She leans back, out of his arms. “I do not!”

He nods sagely, like he hasn’t even heard her. “And you have dreadful taste in music. If I never hear bloody Enter Sandman again, I’ll be glad for it.”

“It’s a classic,” she grumbles, tucking his flannel sheets up around her shoulders, accidentally on purpose exposing his legs to the chill of the room.

“You’re messy and hot headed,” he lists off. He peers down at her and his face softens into the look that she now knows means  _ I love you _ . “You’re a bloody nightmare in the mornings.”

“That’s you, not me.”

“As I said, love,” he tugs at the blankets, pulling them more evenly until they’re nestled together once more. “It was a futile effort. I couldn’t come up with enough to stop loving you.”

And  _ oh _ , alright. That’s just - it’s -

“I saw you drink a Bud Light once,” he snickers into her hair. “That might be reason alone not to love you.”

She kicks him beneath the blankets. “Shut up.”

-/-

She shrugs on one of his old rugby shirts when she has a sudden, all-encompassing need for the eggrolls thrown haphazardly in his fridge earlier, curling her fingers in the sleeves and trying not to blush when he licks at his bottom lip and looks at her like - like  _ that _ .

He moves to flick on the oven when they’re crowded together in his kitchen, and she rolls her eyes, reaching for the microwave instead.

“Microwaved eggrolls taste like rubber, Swan.”

“It’s a good thing they’re not for you, then.”

“You’re a mean woman,” he mumbles, and it’s all of a minute of the mechanical humming from the microwave before his mouth finds her neck, his hands at her hips. She falls back into him with a sigh when his fingers start toying with the hem of her (his) shirt, the familiar thrumming starting anew.

Her hand cups the back of his head when his teeth graze her shoulder, her nails scratching at his scalp. He breathes in sharp through his nose when he discovers how little is beneath this shirt of hers (his), ignoring the microwave entirely and guiding her out of the kitchen, into his living space.

“This is ridiculous,” she gasps, not quite understanding how she can want him so much - still.

(Always.)

(Forever.)

“I’ve wanted you for years, love,” he backs her up towards the love seat in front of the television, encouraging her to sit with his palms brushed lightly against her sides, his hands lifting the shirt up and off until she’s all bare skin in the moonlight. He licks at the corner of his mouth as he thumbs at her nipple, a gentle tweak that makes her arch her back. “Pardon if I’ve not yet had my fill of you.”

She blinks at him, cheeks flushing hot, the need in her belly pulling tighter. “Okay.”

He smiles, kneeling in front of her as she sits. “Alright.”

She can see the dimmed reflection of them in the television - her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, legs spread wide, Killian’s dark head between them. The flex and roll of his shoulder blades when he shifts her legs wider, fingers wrapping around the backs of her knees and tugging her forward until she’s balanced just at the edge of the couch. She’s crashed on this couch more times than she can count - watched endless amounts of baseball with her feet tucked beneath his thigh.

This is better.

“On that we can agree,” he breathes into her thigh before letting his teeth work a mark into her skin, her hands already carding through his hair. He seems to like that, when she tugs just a bit.

She likes it, too.

He brushes a line of kisses from her knee to the crease of her hip, her legs shaking where they’re pressed against his shoulders. His eyes flick up to meet hers just as his tongue touches her clit, and she’s damn glad he made her sit down for this.

It’s like he knows exactly what she wants. The pressure, his tongue, the two fingers he curls inside of her when she slips down further on the couch and rocks her hips up against his face.

“You know how often I’ve thought of this,” he mutters it into his belly button, exhaling heavily when he curls his fingers up and she whispers his name. “How many time I’ve pictured you, just like this.”

But it isn’t until he starts moaning against her, thick sounds of indulgent enjoyment, his eyes burning as he pins her with his stare over the flat expanse of her belly, the swell of her breasts - it isn’t until he drags his teeth against her and slips a third finger into her that she begins to unravel.

It’s a slow pull as her orgasm takes her, the heat pulsing in time with the flat of his tongue still working against her. She grips her hands in his hair and rolls her hips, chasing the high with a choked off sigh of his name.

He gentles his mouth until she can’t take anymore, over sensitized and a shivering, shaking mess against his couch. He licks his lips and then his fingers, the sight of it so utterly filthy she feels another impossible thrum of arousal pulse down low.

“Making up for something?” She questions, a wicked and wonderful idea planting in the back of her head as he shifts up off his knees. She stands as well, ignoring the question in his gaze, turning and kneeling on his couch, bracing herself with her hands against the back of it. He groans, fingers flexing at her hips.

“Something like that,” he manages, and thrusts into her.

The pace he sets is rough - hard, deep thrusts that have her head bowing between her shoulders, legs trembling. He’s quiet this time, nothing but his harsh breathing behind her, the palm of his hand slipping from the swell of her hip to low on her belly, pressing gently where he’s moving inside of her until she - until she -

“Oh,  _ god _ .”

He comes before she does, but it’s a close thing - his fingers pressing sloppy circles just above where he’s spreading her wide, his teeth at her earlobe. She shake and shivers and lets her body fall into the couch, Killian at her back.

She’s never going to be able to watch a baseball game on this damned thing ever again.

-/-

“You have freckles on your hip,” she mutters, fingertips tracing the marks as he shifts and rolls in the bed until his arm is under her shoulders in a way that reminds of her of ice cream at farmers markets on Sunday mornings and one too many home brews in the comfort of her apartment. It’s nice and familiar and - a thousand times better when they’re both naked. She smiles into his skin.

“So I do,” he mutters in return, his voice a raspy lilt, colored dark with his accent and exhaustion. She would feel bad if she didn’t feel so damn good.

“I haven’t noticed them before.”

He arches an eyebrow at that, peering down at her, curling his fingers round and round the strands of her hair splayed across his chest as she continues memorizing the feels of his skin. “Can’t say you’ve had cause to, my love.”

He’s called her love before, but never his, and her smile wavers where it’s tucked against his chest. He notices - he  _ always _ notices - and he cuffs her chin gently with his thumb in question. “What’s that look for?”

“I’m just sorry, is all.” It’s easier, somehow, to apologize for the wasted moments when their future stretches out limitless in front of them. Something that once seemed terrifying, but now seems perfect with her toes pressing against his ankles beneath the flannel sheets she got him four christmases ago. Because he was complaining about how  _ bloody cold  _ the winters get, and how often his heating died a grisly death.

(“Maybe if you stopped beating the damn thing with your boot, it would actually work.”

Huffy and bent nearly in half, tinkering with the radiator with the box of tools he keeps beneath his sink.

“Oh, and you’re an expert now? Don’t forget, darling, I’ve seen how you’ve  _ fixed _ your dishwasher.”)

“Don’t be,” he smiles, dropping his head back to the pillow and dragging his palm between her shoulder blades. “We got here in the end.”

Because as much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, the way she’s felt towards Killian has been something like love all along.

It’s quiet, and for a moment or two she thinks he’s drifted off -

“Though I rather it didn’t take ten years and my total and utter devastation for -  _ ouch _ , bloody hell, love.”

She snickers into his chest, the place where she pinched him already raised and red.

(This is good, too.)


End file.
